


Blood Brothers

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Case Fic, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys find themselves in a situation where the phrase 'fighting for your life' takes on a terrifying new meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Братья по крови](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545758) by [faikit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikit/pseuds/faikit)



> No spoilers, no particular resemblance to canon, rated T for some naughty words and violence later on.

Sam groaned as he rolled heavily over onto his side, moving with the freedom and agility of a beached whale. His eyes fluttered open but closed again almost instantly; a tear trickling down the side of his face as vivid and brilliant sunlight assaulted his vision.

As he lay boneless and disorientated on the ground he could feel grass scratching against his skin; warm, moist earth pressed against his face.

His head spun; the warm breeze whispering in his ears, distracting and disturbing him.

He took a couple of slow, deep breaths, trying to calm the throbbing head and raging nausea that were currently warring for dominance within him.

What in hell just happened?

Only moments ago he was with Dean and Bobby conducting a moonlit exploration of a small provincial museum because of a strange job that Dean had found; four missing guys, three weeks, two deliciously perplexing newspaper reports and one museum.

xxxx

Sam's fog-stuffed mind gradually began to refocus. Dean and Bobby; that's a point … where were they?

Manfully attempting to sit up, he swallowed back the gradually receding nausea and tried to open his eyes again. He was halfway through the manoeuvre when his attention was captured by a distant sound.

"Dude?"

He couldn't help but smile.

Glancing around himself he could see he was laying in some kind of meadow; except that it wasn't. Sun-baked rather than verdant, it was an open grassy wasteland, barren and lined with unfamiliar trees. The particular area where he found himself appeared cool and damp, and the swaying mass of bulrushes behind him provided a good clue as to why.

"Dude? The voice sounded a little more urgent now; "Sam?"

"Dean?" Sam replied, cringing as his voice sounded alarmingly high-pitched with rising panic. He shuddered, and tried again, deliberately levelling his tone; "Dean?"

He hauled himself slowly and shakily up onto his hands and knees, still blinking wetly through the harsh sunlight.

"Dean, you okay man?"

As he stumbled clumsily toward the bulrushes he heard a muttered oath and a breathy mumble which sounded suspiciously like, ''thank God'.

Tentatively picking his way through the bulrushes, Sam peered over them and didn't know whether to be shocked, relieved or amused at the sight that met him.

Dean was sitting, muddied and soaked; legs and eyes akimbo, wet hair plastered against his head, in a wide, shallow stream. The stream's entire depth, around six inches of muddy, weed-laden water, lapped and babbled lazily around the creased denim at his hips as he stared in slightly dazed silence up at Sam's face which loomed over the rushes surrounding him. He appeared to be patently unaware of length of weed draped over his left ear or the frog perched on the toe of his boot.

"Sammy?" There was genuine relief in his voice.

"That's me," Sam smiled, offering Dean his outstretched hand.

Dean shuffled to his knees, splashing and squelching through the watery mud, and irritably dislodging the startled frog. He stifled a wet cough as Sam pulled him shakily to his feet.

They stood side by side on the stream's bank, surrounded by the softly swaying rushes, and wordlessly scanned their surroundings.

Dean's voice was the first to break the silence. "We were in that museum," he mumbled in Sam's direction; "I goddamn blinked an' then nex' thing, I'm sprawled face down in this freakin' mudbath, an' feelin' like I've been treated to the world's biggest hangover."

Sam nodded; "I was flat out over there," he pointed in the approximate direction; "woke up feeling like crap too."

Dean coughed again; "and I think I swallowed a friggin' tadpole," he grimaced; "… ugh, salty."

They fell silent again. Dean's spluttering coughs and the dripping of muddy water, the only sounds that carried on the breeze.

xxxxx

Eventually Dean spoke up again, "where's Bobby?" he asked, rubbing a wet hand across his equally wet face, attempting to push his dripping bangs out of his eyes but serving only to spread the mud from his palm across the bridge of his nose.

"Don't know yet," Sam replied, concern tightening his face.

"C'mon," Dean snapped, grabbing Sam by the arm and seemingly regaining his bearings as he strode defiantly through the rushes, sending panicked waterfowl and coypu rats scattering for safety in every direction.

"BOBBY!"

Sam jogged along beside his brother and joined in the chorus; "BO-OBBY … BOBBY!"

"BOBBY," Dean yelled, his voice cracking under the strain; "BOBBY, YOU THERE?"

Fumbling in his pocket, Sam pulled out his cell.

"No signal," he sighed, glancing across at Dean; "try yours."

Dean shook his head irritably, "can't," he grunted; "it's somewhere in that stupid river."

"C'mon, dammit," Dean stormed; "Bobby, where the freakin' hell are you!"

"And where the freakin' hell are we?" Sam pondered; "this place, I don't like it, it's just … weird."

Dean sighed, glancing around him; "what'dy mean weird? It's a field, how weird can a field be?"

"I dunno man, it just feels – wrong," Sam muttered; "look, no buildings, no asphalt, no cell signal, no power lines; it's just … weird."

Dean's frustrated glare prompted Sam to continue.

"It's, like, all wrong; "he stammered, "it feels wrong, it even smells wrong."

Dean rubbed his head, spreading the mud even further; "it smells of …" he sniffed, "shit." He hesitated, "but then that could just be this mud."

"No," Sam replied, oblivious to Dean's grumbling; "it's not that, it's kinda, I don't know; it's just …"

"Weird?" Dean offered dryly.

"Yeah," Sam sighed, wilting slightly; "weird."

Dean stepped forward and slapped Sam on the back; "c'mon Weirdy McWeirdass, let's head out and see if we can find Bobby."

xxxxx

Bobby's flashlight bobbed and weaved through the darkness as he made his way between the glass cases which cluttered the 'Roman Antiquities' gallery in the Maple City Museum.

Those Winchesters were on the other side of the room and were being unusually quiet; and that made him uncomfortable.

He made his way over to the massive glass case where he had last seen them before he'd wandered off to check out some particularly disturbing marble bust of someone so profoundly ugly, he'd felt compelled to break out the holy water, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Where the freakin' hell were that pair of idjits?

He turned, grumbling under his breath as he scanned the room, then looked down on something that caught his eye.

His blood turned to ice.

It was Dean's abandoned flashlight.

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

The job had caught Dean's bored eye during an unusually quiet time for the hunting fraternity.

The supernatural realm appeared to be having a bit of a hiatus, and so, making the most of a little unexpected downtime, the Winchesters had decided to spend a few days with Bobby. Dean had taken the opportunity to relax in his favourite fashion (where alcohol and women weren't involved), with a wrench in his hand and his head under the hood of some of Bobby's wrecks, while Sam buried himself in classic movies, the admirable works of Stephen King and a growing pile of laundry that Dean refused to go anywhere near.

The three had even managed a pleasant day's fishing and dined regally on the outcome. It was a good few days to be a Winchester.

It was when Dean had picked up the rolled-up copy of the Dakota Herald from Bobby's doormat with the intention of smacking Sam upside the head with it; his eye had been caught by the headline; 'police baffled by disappearances at Maple Museum'.

Four guys; a curator, a cleaner, and two nightwatchmen had all walked into the Roman Antiquities gallery …

and never walked out.

xxxxx

The irresistible mystery had piqued the curiosity of all three hunters, and given that the museum was currently unusually busy; apparently there was nothing like sensationalist bad publicity to have the local population beating a path to your door; the Winchesters and Bobby had decided to pass on a visit during opening hours and to take advantage of the current lack of a nightwatchman instead.

'Emperor Gaius Posthumus – Rome's Unknown Tyrant' exclaimed the banner above the door in the moonlit Roman Antiquities Gallery. The museum was hosting a new exhibition about a little-known Roman emperor, and it seemed to have captured the public's imagination thanks, in no small part to its accompanying juicy little mystery.

Bobby was just as interested in perusing the exhibition as investigating the hunt. He had scanned and examined the exhibits, read the information panels and come to a simple conclusion.

This Posthumus guy was a total dick.

Records of his reign, assuming they were true, made every history student's favourite nutjob, the Emperor Caligula, look like a relatively decent, if slightly misunderstood, oddball by comparison.

History told that Posthumus achieved very little during his nine-year reign other than to virtually bankrupt the Roman empire due to his fanatical, verging on obsessive, love of the arena games. His reign was typified by an almost endless string of increasingly imaginative and gruesome arena spectacles which pandered shamelessly to the baying mob, but decimated the pockets of the empire, not to mention the male population of the proletariat.

Those unfortunates were called the 'Capite Censi' literally, those counted by head; they had no property, no influence and no voice; they were expendable. And Posthumus spent their blood across the arena sands with callous disregard.

It was only when even that source of arena fodder began to run dry that the people of Rome began to voice their concerns; the mob began to bay for other reasons.

When their concerns were contemptuously ignored; history went on to tell that several disgruntled members of the unfortunate emperor's praetorian guard decided to conduct their own private arena spectacle and promptly fed him to his own tigers.

xxxxx

The grand Emperor Posthumus and his antics forgotten, Bobby rushed frantically around the unlit building, peering over cabinets, behind statues and under tables. Searching high and low, he squinted into inpenetrable shadows and darkened nooks all the way from Native American culture through to the Art of Rameses the Second.

Eventually, he wandered crestfallen back into the Roman Antiquities gallery and stood staring down in dismay at the shattered flashlight.

Beside him, bathed in a velvety grey shaft of moonlight, stood a massive glass case containing what Bobby assumed was the last thing the Winchesters had beheld before whatever happened – happened.

It was a colossal slab of unpolished marble decorated by an expansive bas relief, weathered over the centuries but still very much discernible, of two gladiators engaged in a vicious combat.

Beneath the image the stone bore the carved motto; 'pugna ad finem omnes pugnat'.

Fluent in latin, both spoken and written, Bobby had no trouble translating the caption underneath the sculpture; 'the fight to end all fights'. He bent to pick up the wreckage of the flashlight and stared forlornly around the cluttered room, willing the Winchesters to stroll out of the shadows that surrounded him.

Centuries of brutal history stared silently back at him through dust motes floating lazily in the moonlight.

Clutching the shattered light to his chest, he stared back at the massive sculpture looming beside him. Whoever – or whatever had taken the boys away had set itself up for the fight to end all fights.

And that was a promise.

xxxxx

The Winchesters had been searching, without success, for Bobby for almost an hour and in the process had found no answers at all to their bizarre situation.

"I'm telling you Dean," Sam muttered; "this place is weird." He glanced at his cell again, and sighed when it once again registered 'no signal'.

Dean stared around him, as annoying as it was, he was starting to agree with his brother.

Glancing around him, Dean's brow furrowed deeper and deeper in bemusement as they trudged along an uneven track, scarcely more than a dusty, cobbled path; "Sammy," he muttered drily, a vain attempt to lighten the mood; "I don't think we're in Kansas any more".

Sam cringed; "awesome," he groaned; "as if this place couldn't get any weirder, now I've got images of you in a blue gingham dress stuck in my head."

Dean shrugged, "I could carry it off," he paused; "don' know about the pigtails though."

Sam stopped abruptly, "can we stay focussed?"

"I'm focussed," snapped Dean hesitating alongside Sam; "look, here I am; focussed."

"Where are we actually heading?" Sam sighed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"We gotta find out what's happened to Bobby," Dean replied; "that's priority number one. There's no cell signal, can't even get 911, so we just keep walking." He swore quietly as he shuffled backwards, turning his ankle on a loose cobble, "sooner or later we'll find some place in this weirdo craphole with a phone that we can use."

Sam nodded absently, "we need to figure out where we are as well;" he muttered, glancing uneasily around himself.

The brothers set off on their aimless trek once again. The stickily warm air fluttered around them carrying the unfamiliar citrus sage fragrances of cypress and linden trees. Swaying and nodding softly in the breeze, the great trees cast dancing, dappled shadows across the Winchesters as they picked their way cautiously along the narrow track.

Around them, jacaranda trees dotted the landscape, their lavender blooms providing a splash of colour against the sun-baked sepia horizon which went unnoticed by the two distracted men walking between them.

"Dean, I don't recognise any of these trees," Sam observed; "none of them."

Without breaking his stride, Dean huffed nonchalently; "trees are trees, they're green, they're big; so what?"

Sam's face bore that look that Dean had come to dread. The look that told Dean his brother was deep in thought; and that invariably meant trouble. "So … what if these are trees that aren't native to the US?"

Dean's stride slowed. "What're you saying?"

Sam shrugged; "you said it yourself Dean, 'I don't think we're in Kansas any more'; for Kansas, read America; what if we're not in America any more?"

Dean's mouth worked silently for moment. "I was jokin' Sam", Dean snorted with more confidence than he felt; "that's stupid; where the hell else would we be?"

"Two hundred other countries in the world Dean, it could be any of them."

Dean glanced round at the banks of swaying trees, their heavy green foliage overhanging acres of rippling sun-scorched grass.

"I'll take a guess it's not Antarctica," he muttered, shaking his head.

"But," Sam persisted, "what if …"

"Sam," Dean interrupted, a note of panic sharpening the edge of his words; "there's a perfectly rational explanation for this," he snapped; "this could be some kind of shared hallucination, or – or we could both be having some kind of fugue state, or … I don't friggin' know." He rubbed his brow, a pained squint settling across his face; "what I do know is that we haven't hopped onto a 747 and ended up in goddamn Spain or Morocco or wherever the hell else you think this is; we could be anywhere in the States, we got loads of rural areas with no civilisation for miles."

"Trust me," he reassured; "we'll round that bend in the trail up ahead and stroll straight into a Wal-mart or something."

Sam smiled and nodded. He didn't believe that any more than Dean did; all he knew was that his sense of jangling unease was growing with every step they took.

The Winchesters ploughed forward, growing more frustrated and more nervous with every step until they rounded the bend in the trail and in line with Dean's hopeful promise, they did, in fact find something.

But it wasn't a Wal-mart.

xxxxx

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: don't go looking through the history books for my Emperor Gaius Posthumus because he's my own nefarious invention!


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby slammed the door behind him and slumped down into his favourite chair in the middle of the kitchen, rubbing his eyes hard and long until he could feel a wetness on the heel of his hand. This morning, the familiar smell of his kitchen; a faint cocktail of dust, coffee, burnt toast, and dirty, wet boots, did nothing to comfort him. The grey haze of dawn had just begun to creep across his yard and burning fatigue warred with crushing concern as he sat, staring through the grimy window at the murky world slowly revealing itself outside.

He knew that, as tired as he was, he wasn't going to get any sleep unless he'd at least made a start on trying to find an answer to whatever had happened back there in the museum.

He knew all about unexplained vanishings; they were fairly run-of-the-mill occurrences in the supernatural world. David Lang, the Tennessee farmer; Benjamin Bathurst, the British diplomat; they were among many unfortunates through the ages who came under the heading of mysterious vanishings. People who simply stepped into oblivion; sometimes in front of several astounded witnesses and sometimes unseen, but whatever the circumstances, their mysterious stories had endured through the centuries.

Everyone in the hunting community knew the reasons given for these disappearances by the authorities and the supposedly educated people of the world; wormholes through time and space, portals into parallel universes, mini-Bermuda triangles, alien abduction; were, of course, all complete crap; but hey, let them go on believing what they wanted; it made life easier for those who really knew the truth.

These disappearing guys were generally some kind of spirit, or shifter, or elemental. Or sometimes the poor sonsofbitches were victims of a curse or even some kind of spiritual or even faerie abduction.

Of course, all that was always assuming that any witnesses to the incident were sound; that is to say not stoned, drunk or traumatised.

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose as he stifled a yawn; well, he wasn't going to discover squat sitting here moping around like a wet lettuce. He knew what he had seen, and he also knew he was neither stoned or drunk, although he would have admitted to feeling a little bit traumatised. He also knew that those boys, wherever they were, would be desperately needing his help, and the first thing he was going to have to do was find out every obscure little fact he could find about this Emperor Posthumus joker.

He rose out of his chair and, trudging across the kitchen toward the kettle sitting on the stove, he reached for the coffee jar.

Hello caffeine, my old friend.

xxxxx

"This place is freakin' me out," growled Dean, angrily swatting away a bee which had been buzzing around his ear for way too long, as the brothers headed on down the track.

Sam shrugged. "Me too if it's any consolation," he replied absently, still busily scanning the surroundings.

As they rounded a sweeping bend in the track, Sam suddenly stopped, flinging out an arm across Dean's chest, barring his way.

"Ooof!" Dean grunted; "hey warn a guy when you're gonna do …"

"SHHH!" Sam hissed sharply.

They stood in silence for several moments, listening intently to whatever it was that Sam thought he'd heard. Dean could hear the warm, fragrant air moving through the tree canopies. He heard birdsong, and the last remnants of that stinking pondwater dripping off his rapidly drying shirt (at least that stupid breeze and the sun were good for something); he cast a sideways glance at Sam, who stood, still as granite, eyes narrowed in rapt concentration.

Then he heard it too; something distant and painfully faint.

Voices.

Barely more than a murmur carried on the breeze, a soft sound melting amidst the whisper of the rippling grass, and the rustling trees around them.

Sam glanced toward Dean; "d'y hear that?"

Dean nodded; "sure do," he turned to Sam with a nervous smile; "civilisation."

They stood and listened for a while, tuning into the sound. Whilst they couldn't hear clearly enough to make out what was being said, they could at least tell that all the voices were male and that there were several of them. The fact that they didn't seem to be getting any louder or quieter seemed to suggest that the group was stationery.

"Should we go and check them out?" Sam half asked, half suggested. Dean seemed to ponder for a moment before responding.

"Don't see that we've got much of a choice," he grunted; "let's just be … careful."

Sam nodded in understanding. Although he knew this discovery could mean help, shelter, food, even an answer to their predicament; he was well aware that it could also spell trouble with a capital T.

xxxxx

Bobby slumped back, wincing as his back creaked louder than his chair, and yawned.

The most exalted, noble Gaius Posthumus, Emperor of Rome, earthly warrior of the Great War God Mars, Entertainer of the Masses, and yup, a gold-plated dick.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he scanned the notes he had written, grimacing at how untidy they had become as his fatigue had taken hold.

The erstwhile Emperor, with his cruel and bloodthirsty love of the arena games, had devoted his life to staging 'the fight to end all fights'; the bout which would thrill him beyond any that had gone before. A fight that would be long and arduous; compelling and hypnotic, at once both beautiful and brutal.

Two desperate and highly trained men fighting for their lives in front of a mesmerised crowd with strength and honour beyond human endurance; this fight would be his inheritance, his gift to posterity.

Poets and storytellers would still be enraptured by it thousands of years after the event; just like the battle of Actium only a lot more cosy, and without all those boats getting in the way of some damn good bloodletting.

The gladiator that provided him with this gift would earn his freedom; alive or dead he would guarantee his place in eternity.

Bobby shook his head in weary disbelief.

Dick, definitely.

The emperor's gladiatorial training ground, largely populated with Rome's great unwashed, boasted a turnover that was, by any other word, staggering. The life expectancy of the average unfortunate setting foot within its forbidding stone gates would be measured in weeks rather than years.

He had become aware that the arena body count was drawing attention; and the wrong kind of attention at that, and more out of a resigned irritation at the interference of vocal do-gooders than any kind of concern, he felt compelled to look elsewhere for his combatants. Suddenly the camp was filling up with a supply of unfamiliar and distinctly un-roman waifs and strays. Known only as 'ex longe' - 'those from afar', everyone assumed they were drawn from the far flung corners of the empire, and suddenly everyone was happy again. It seemed that enslaved foreigners slaughtering each other wasn't half as controversial as mass carnage among the dregs of Roman society.

Despite all his best efforts, It seemed that the bloodthirsty Emperor Posthumus was destined to remain disappointed in his quest to experience the fight to end all fights; up until his death, there was no evidence to suggest that he ever realised his dream; indeed, history told that judging by his final words, the last thing to go through his mind - apart from his tiger's jaws that is - was the thought; 'I will not be denied'.

Bobby scratched his head under his cap, drained his coffee and then let his head drop softly onto the paper coated table as sleep finally washed over him.

xxxxx

It was as they rounded the bend in the trail, the Winchesters saw it; a little way ahead of them.

It was a cart. Heavily constructed out of roughly hewn wood, it was covered with a thick green canopy.

As they silently approached it from behind, they could see two horses; one chestnut, the other dark, almost black; standing patiently in front of it, and a group of six men milling around it, in a casual, unhurried manner which suggested they had interrupted a long journey to rest.

"What the hell?" Sam exclaimed quietly to no-one in particular.

"What, is the freakin' renaissance fair in town or something?" Dean replied, not taking his eyes off of the distant figures.

Bare legged, they wore short shapeless tunics of grey and beige, pulled in at the waist by leather belts. Wool or cotton, the brothers weren't sure, but the fabric was clearly not made with fashion or comfort in mind. These were garments of practicality and nothing else.

Narrow leather thongs threading tightly around their ankles attached their open, flat sandals to feet stained grey by the dusty road.

Without even realising it, Dean had sidled cautiously to the side of the track, dragging Sam with him, hiding themselves in the mottled shadows of one of the trees. They stood and watched the men curiously.

Apprehensively.

There was a general air of relaxation about the gathering ahead of them; some of the men were sitting on the grass verge at the edge of the track, some stood leaning against the cart as they chatted aimiably, sometimes a burst of spontaneous laughter would split the air. All the signs suggested that these six men, whoever they were, knew each other well and were perfectly comfortable in each others' company.

Fruit was passed around between them and the men ate gratefully, wiping sticky fingers on their drab tunics. One of them rose and stretched. Wandering casually across the track, he stood and urinated against the wheel of the cart.

All the while the Winchesters watched silently, bathed in the dappled shadows which were gradually lengthening in the late afternoon sun.

"You ever do that against my baby, I'll kill you;" whispered Dean in a threatening tone, without taking his eyes off the mysterious gathering.

"Yeah, I'll bear that in mind," Sam snorted quietly in response; "um, kinda bigger fish to fry right now bro".

Dean's brow furrowed as he listened hard, concentrating on filtering through the soft white noise around them to try to hear what was being said.

"Don't know what language that is they're speaking, but it ain't English," he muttered across a sigh of frustration, "can't understand a freakin' word."

Sam's brow furrowed in complete incomprehension. "Dude," he whispered turning to Dean; "if I didn't know better, I'd say it was latin," he explained; "I picked out a couple of words that I thought I recognised, like peach, and horses, and ... fight; but it doesn't make sense," he sighed; "no-one speaks latin in everyday life now."

Dean looked up at Sam; "nothing makes sense," he hissed, scratching at the stiff, now-dried mud across his face; "this whole deal; me wakin' up in that river, you in that field, Bobby missin', no phones, and now we've got the redneck freakshow and their family transport up ahead. Not one single friggin' thing about this whole stupid mess-up makes sense."

He turned back to look up the track and froze.

"Sam," he muttered nervously; "where are they?"

Looking up from his brother's face, Sam could see the cart standing unattended with it's two horses peacefully grazing in the long grass around it.

The six men were nowhere to be seen.

"Sam …" Dean snorted; "this is so not …"

A snap of a twig behind them in the long grass.

One heavy blow each to the back of the Winchesters heads.

And all was darkness.

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

It was a nauseous rattle that woke Dean. The pitching, rumbling disorienation felt a little like a hangover, except that his hangovers didn't usually come complete with the faint odour of horseshit.

He was lying awkwardly; partly on his side, partly on his belly, in a damp, dark space which was rocking and rattling relentlessly and stunk of dust, grass, leather, horses, mud and other organic substances that Dean really didn't want to dwell on.

The damp wooden floor beneath him was juddering and rolling; vibrating through his skull, rattlling his teeth with a deafening rumble and cultivating a rising queasiness.

Blinking through the darkness, he swallowed hard against the urge to hurl as he tried to make sense of where he was.

His first awareness was of a tender, swollen lump at the back of his head which wasn't being helped one tiny little bit by the bouncing, rocking misery that he found himself in.

The second, infinitely more alarming factor that he became aware of was that his hands were tied behind his back, tight and unyielding. He cautiously flexed his aching shoulders to test the integrity of whatever was binding him and grimaced; whatever it was was painfully tight and wasn't going anyplace anytime soon.

Wrinkling and twitching his nose, rabbit-fashion, he tried to dislodge an infuriatingly persistent tickle but failed, sucking in a deep breath as a heavy sneeze borne of floating dust and horsehair began to brew within him.

Ahhhhh ...CCHHOoooooooooAAAHH … !

He let out a choking gasp as his aching head bounced giddily off the wooden floor at the force of the sneeze, sending bolts of pain through his strained shoulders.

As he lay panting and sniffling lavishly through the gloom, he barely heard the voice beside him over the rumbling and rattling of the small world around him.

"Dude?"

Dean groaned again as the nausea threatened briefly.

"DEAN …"

His head swam. The few thoughts that he was able to process swirled chaotically around him, and it seemed like an age before he was able to voice the word he wanted to say.

When it came out, it was nothing more than a hoarse rasp choked out between shallow panting breaths and a long wet snuffle.

"Sam?" He wriggled grub-like on the floor to try to move in the direction of the voice; "Sam, s'at you?"

His eyes were beginning to grow accustomed to the darkness, and he could begin to make out the silhouette of a hulking pair of shoulders lying on the floor only inches away from his line of vision.

"Yeah, it's me" Sam muttered, lying on his side, facing away from Dean, his voice muffled by dizziness and dust; "you okay man?"

"Awesome," croaked Dean, "what 'bout you?" he added, spitting out a mouthful of dust, and letting out a pained grunt as a particularly rough jolt jostled him hard into Sam's back.

"Arms are goin' to sleep – tied behind my back," Sam replied, gasping as Dean's head cannoned into his back "of course, not helped by someone headbutting me in the back;" he observed dryly. "Your nose is way too pointy."

"Dot any more," Dean groaned, his poor pounded nose throbbing violently as twinkling stars wheeled in front of his watering eyes.

xxxxx

"I think we're in that cart," Sam hissed through clenched teeth, almost dislocating his shoulders in an unsuccessful effort to roll over and face Dean; "this is …"

"Don't even think about sayin' 'weird'," snapped Dean; "we've gone way beyond freakin' weird," he growled; "we've long since passed weird and entered the realms of downright freakin' stupid. How the hell did we let those freaks get the drop on us?"

"Think the question is more like 'why have they kidnapped us?'" Sam reflected quietly, "and who are 'they'?" he added.

The brothers fell silent briefly and listened to the sounds around them. The heavy rumbling of the cart, a squeaking wheel, the creaking and grinding of the wooden struts which held the thick canvas awning covering the cart and it's bewildered occupants, blocking out virtually every trace of light.

Outside, they could hear the rhythmic, hollow crunch of hooves; the horses moving at a slow laboured plod, clearly in no hurry to reach their destination much to the chagrin of the Winchesters who were both horribly cramped and uncomfortable in their makeshift prison. Outside the cart voices, muffled by the thick canvas, sounded; a muted babble of conversation here, a brief burst of laughter there. Sounds which should have been so very ordinary, and instead managed to sound grimly threatening instead.

xxxxx

The cart gave another jolt and Dean lurched forward again, his forehead once again making heavy contact with the rock-hard prominences of Sam's spine.

"Sam," Dean began hesitantly, somewhat alarmed that his face had planted against damp, cool skin and not threadbare cotton; "where's your shirt?"

He saw the shadowy mass of the broad shoulders next to him shrug.

"Don't know," Sam responded; "they must have taken it off me after they took us out," he paused; "took my jeans and boots too, probably to stop me trying to escape." He tried to crane his head round trying and failing to snatch a look at Dean lying behind him; "what about you?"

Dean suddenly realised that like his brother, he had been stripped of his shirt, jeans and boots. No wonder the damn floor felt so cold and damp; he had been so preoccupied with trying to work out where he was and what had happened, not to mention concentrating hard on trying not to throw up as his stomach rocked and roiled along with the rumbling cart, he hadn't even realised that he was prostrate on the floor, a vision of elegnce in just boxers and socks.

This situation was looking worse and worse with each passing moment.

xxxxx

Refreshed and determined after a decent night's sleep – well, as decent as it gets across a kitchen table, Bobby made himself ready for one of the most important days' work in his life.

He needed to get another look at that exhibition. There had to be something there; a sigil, an incantation, an amulet; anything that would link what he spent the night reading about to what had happened to the brothers.

He had decided to go during opening hours to see if he could find the museum's resident 'expert'. Someone he could grill; someone who could add an extra layer to his research. Thus it was that Bob Chanteur, newly retired gentleman with lots of time for indulging his passion for ancient roman history was born, and therefore smartly respectable was the order of the day.

He straightened his best jacket and favourite blue tie as he stepped outside of the house.

xxxxx

Sam wasn't sure how long the brothers had been lying trussed up like a pair of thanksgiving turkeys in that damn cart. In an effort to distract himself, he had been working hard; his hands and fingers squirming and gyrating furiously, picking ineffectively at the tightly knotted straps around his wrists until they had gone numb and he could no longer feel the bonds he was trying to undo.

Dean was busy doing the same if the muffled oaths emanating from his direction were anything to go by.

They had both managed at various times to shuffle themselves up into sitting positions, only to faceplant inelegantly back down at equally various intervals as the cart continued it's seemingly interminable and very bumpy journey.

By the time it eventually rolled to a stop, both brothers' sterling efforts had achieved precisely nothing besides the fact that they were now lying on the floor facing each other. Whoever had tied those knots had meant business.

Relishing the stillness, Sam lay and stared through the shadows at Dean. He could see his brother's face clearly now. Dean's eyes, inpenetrably black with pupils blown massive in the gloom, latched onto Sam, wide with a mixture of deep apprehension, anger and burning frustration.

xxxxx

A melee of voices sounded as heavy footsteps made their way around to the back of the cart. The Winchesters both gasped in shock as the canopy was swiftly unlaced and swept apart. They burrowed toward the back wall of the vehicle, painfully blinded by the brilliant sunlight that suddenly flooded the cart's interior, as a heavy and resplendently ugly face peered up at them.

Watery, pig-like eyes looked them up and down appraisingly then nodded, barking something they didn't understand to someone they couldn't see. A snort of approval sounded from the vast, carbuncular nose that adorned the face.

With their assaulted vision gradually returning to their stinging eyes, the Winchesters peered tearily through the open canopy to scan the scene outside.

Sam turned hesitantly to Dean. "This looks bad dude," he muttered nervously.

"We are so screwed," Dean whispered in agreement.

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

As the sudden burn of the morning sunlight which flooded the darkness within the cart began to fade, the brothers' teary vision cleared to reveal a dusty, enclosed yard. Surrounded by looming, oppressive, grey buildings, it reminded them of a prison yard and they realised that their uncomfortable journey had taken them through the night.

All across the yard were a number of men engaged in various one-on-one bouts of combat. In the distance, a pair were wrestling in a clumsily roped-off enclosure, others were squaring up in pairs, the clatter of their wooden swords, tridents and axes together with aggressive shouts of victory and frantic yelps of surrender hanging in the air around them.

Dean glanced uneasily at Sam. This was so very, very wrong.

He realised that these fighting figures were all dressed in much the same way as those weird sonsofbitches who had abducted them out there on the track yesterday afternoon. Most worrying, however, was the fact that each and every one of these poor bastards, so far as Dean could see, looked, bruised and broken, working tirelessly, and dripping with sweat under the crystal-bright morning sun. Most of them were heavily built, musclebound and strong; warriors for whom fighting was a way of life, not a choice. It was clear, however, that there were some among them who really didn't want to be there at all.

The Winchesters crouched in the cart and watched in horror as a slight, sinuous man cowered helplessly beneath the raised weapon of his adversary, his sword knocked out of his now bleeding hand, and kicked away across the dusty ground. They had enough expertise to know at a glance this poor guy clearly had no talent or enthusiasm for fighting whatsoever.

That obvious fact didn't stop a great scarred oaf, a guard they guessed, stomping over and pummelling the poor man into submission with a massively unforgiving club for his failure.

xxxxx

They had barely recovered from the shock of seeing the unconscious man dragged away when two familiar figures appeared at the back of the cart and clambered up into the cramped space.

As they tentatively approached the brothers, Dean's dogged persistence finally paid off with perfect timing, as the thin bonds around his wrists snapped, freeing his arms. In a flash, he quickly demonstrated that, unlike the poor brutalised wretch they had just watched, he had a formidable talent for fighting and launched into a furious assault as two of the men he recognised from the track yesterday reached out toward him.

He lashed forward with a vicious headbutt as he felt himself being dragged towards the cart's edge and interrupted a breathless tirade of obscenity for a wicked smirk as he heard the sharp crack of a nose breaking.

As the man staggered backward, gurgling in agony and clutching the bleeding wreckage of his nose, Dean reached for the dagger threaded into the man's belt and turned, in one fluid movement, slicing through the bonds that held Sam's wrists.

The dagger dropped to the ground as multiple hands fell upon him.

"What are we doin' here you goddamn assholes … where's our freakin' clothes … where the hell are we?" The words tumbled out of his mouth in a frantic stream of barely articulate rage as his powerful arms thrashed, hurling violent punches in every direction; " I want some freakin' answers, you sonsofbitches," he roared as three more men piled on top of him, calling upon all their strength and weight to wrestle him off the cart and onto the ground, "lemme friggin' go, douchebag," he gasped, still thrashing furiously, resorting to biting and kicking to try to regain some advantage.

"DEAN," Sam yelled frantically as three more men climbed onto the cart to drag him out after his brother, one received the heel of Sam's foot in his face for his trouble, and dropped heavily to the ground, either unconscious or dead; Sam had felt a sudden snap of bone as he made contact and was past caring. All he cared about was where Dean had been taken.

He shook off the two remaining men who were attempting to hold onto him, slamming them against the back of the cart and leapt down onto the ground, his eyes scanning the yard for Dean. "Dean …" he called, gasping as his two assailants followed him, once again, attempting to drag him to the ground. A sharp shrug of Sam's massive shoulders dislodged them, and it took four more men in addition to the exhausted and bloodied pair to eventually subdue the enraged giant.

Eventually, the Winchesters were defeated, pressed to their knees in the hot dust by the many hands it took to bring them down.

As they knelt exhausted and dazed in the hands of their captors, the owner of the lavishly ugly face appeared before them, beady cold eyes, pale as water, peering round from behind the spongy crimson mass of his nose.

His heavy luxuriant robes boasted prosperity, but their dusty, faded colours and patched, fraying edges told a different story.

He was clearly impressed that it had taken nine now bruised and bleeding men, one of whom hadn't survived to see the fruits of his labours, to subdue the powerful newcomers. His florid, pig-eyed face was alive with delight and excitement at his new acquisitions.

Sam's eyes roamed around the yard, anything to stop him looking at that bloated, groteque face; a face he knew he would simply love to make even uglier by smashing it to a pulp with his fists, his knees or anything else that came to hand. He concentrated instead on the words carved around the rough stone walls which loomed over them. Some looked vaguely familiar; the text was definitely latin, but there was one word in particular which caught his attention and made his blood run to ice, even in the cloying morning heat…

'Gladiatores'

xxxxx

Ugly face reached out a meaty, calloused hand and grabbed Dean by the chin. Roughly lifting his head, he stooped over Dean's forcibly kneeling form, fat sausage fingers gripping his stubbled jaw with surprising force, and pulling down to force his mouth open.

Sam watched in silent anger as Dean thrashed his head from side to side, grunting and choking, unable to form the words he longed to say with his jaw immobilised in his grinning captor's leathery hand.

The man laughed; his lips stretching into a frog-like leer made all the more repulsive by the sparse collection of brown, crumbling stumps which had once been teeth that it revealed. A foul, rancid odour assaulted the brothers as his laughter subsided; clearly his breath was as strong as his grip.

The hand worked Deans head from side to side, examining his teeth, the clarity of his eyes; a sweaty, calloused fingertip traced the outline of his ear, before moving upwards to begin a brief exploration of his scalp. Dean squirmed testily under the violation, gasping as his shoulders protested against the force of four men restraining his arms behind his back.

Releasing his grip on Dean's jaw, ugly-face ignored the tide of furious invective that Dean spat towards him, as he moved to conduct a similar examination of his other prize. Sam snapped, trying to bite the thumb that forced his mouth open, earning himself a backhanded slap across the cheek for his trouble.

Eventually, the pig-man took a step back and clapped his hands, gesturing for both brothers to be pulled to their feet.

They cringed in revulsion, feeling his rheumy eyes roaming over their restrained and uncomfortably exposed bodies, but nothing could have prepared them for the shock when his hands went to work, lifting their arms, squeezing their shoulders, slapping their calves; enthusiastically assessing their build and musculature and nodding approvingly as he did so.

Sam squirmed furiously, trying to shrug off the five men holding him; "give us our clothes," he snapped; "you can't do this to us, it's not a goddamn cattle market."

The leering grin turned toward Sam, treating the younger Winchester to another blast of fetid air.

Dean let out a roar of fury and lunged forward, physically dragging the four men holding him back until their combined weight managed to halt his momentum, almost tearing his shoulders from their sockets. Sam knew that those four men were all that stood between the pig-faced touchy-feely creep, and a rage-blinded Dean tearing him limb from limb, but the mysterious man had clearly seen this sort of reaction many times before because he barely batted a watery, drooping eyelid, even when Dean's snarling visage, twisted into a hate-filled glare that could freeze hell itself, hovered only inches from his own.

His balding, sun-beaten head nodded behind the brothers, and he watched impassively as his new toys were dragged away, still fighting and protesting wildly.

He smiled.

xxxxx

Dark, cool shadows began to lengthen across the ground as the Winchesters sat, bewildered and exhausted on the dusty stone floor of a large cell; a vaguely cubic hollow built into the stone wall with a massive wooden grating which served as a sliding door. They had been gifted with the same shapeless grey tunics that they had seen on the men back on the track. The damn things may have been infested with lice and rough as a coal sack but at least they afforded a modicum of dignity. Having had a few quiet hours to ponder and consider their circumstances, Sam was coming round to the idea that they were going to have to take what they could get as long as this nightmare continued.

On the ground between their shackled ankles stood a shallow wooden bowl containing something wet and unidentifiable which could have been muesli, it could equally have been stew, gruel, or any number of things that didn't feature highly on either brothers preferred menu. They would have had two bowls of the stuff except that in an outburst of petulant fury Dean had thrown his back at their captors.

Still, Sam mused, hunger pains were the least of their worries right now.

"This is bad dude," he sighed; "real bad."

Dean kneaded his forehead; "you don't say," he muttered sourly into his chest. "We're prisoners in some douchey gladiator training camp in ancient Rome," he added; "it sounds more friggin' stupid every time I say it."

"I don't see what else it can be," Sam shrugged helplessly; "you saw those dudes fighting – training – when we were pulled out of the cart, did you see how banged up they looked?"

Dean nodded sourly, "not as banged up as those guys that put us in here," he snorted softly in satisfaction; "if we are in a gladiator camp, I reckon we've put half those dudes out of action; they won't be swingin' no friggin' tridents any time soon."

"The buildings, the language," Sam continued, barely acknowledging Dean's comment; "these clothes," he scowled as he tugged in disgust at the rough fabric of his tunic trying to ignore the fact that it stunk of horse, "and that ugly asshole out there, I heard one of those guys call him 'Lanista'."

"I know what I'd call him, the fug-ugly dick," grunted Dean.

Sam nodded knowingly; "a lanista is a gladiator trainer."

"Never mind that freakin' douchebag, how the hell did we get here?" Dean snorted; "and where the hell's Bobby? Jeez, Sam, I hope he's okay."

Sam sighed deeply; "I don't know dude; heck, I've got no idea." He sighed again, tugging down the frayed hem of his too-short tunic, and flicked a tiny spider off of his chest. "More to the point," he continued; "how the hell can we get back."

They both spun round as a hoarse voice sounded from the corner of the cell.

"We can't …"

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

Bobby huffed out a nervous breath as he strode along the street, tapping his umbrella along the ground in time with his steps. The stiff unstretched leather of his smart, chocolate-brown shoes, worn only once at a wedding he had attended in 1984 creaked and pinched murderously with every step, affording him a painful reminder of why he had only worn the darn things once since 1984.

As he rounded the corner toward the museum, looking forward to finding some answers, and just as importantly, a chair, he got his first inkling that something wasn't right.

In front of the museum a listless figure in ill-fitting overalls balanced atop a tower of scaffolding. He was busy taking down the exhibition signs.

Resisting the urge to break into a run, and in all likelihood crippling himself for life, Bob Chanteur, dapper Gentleman-about-town who didn't look at all like a man whose feet were being tortured in a vice, strolled casually across the road, and looked up at the workman.

"Say buddy, what time is the exhibition opening today?" He called up to the bored-looking man as he tugged at the signs on the wall above his head.

"Sorry, pal, you're outta luck," the man replied without making eye-contact; "exhibition closed yesterday, police ordered it closed."

"Huh?" Bobby fought to hold back his disappointment; "damnit, an' I made a special trip in. Is this all about those guys who disappeared?"

"The workman's shoulders shrugged under his outsized overalls. "Yeah guess so; guess you made your trip for nuthin'."

Bobby sighed as he watched the last 'Rome's Unknown Tyrant' banner slip down the wall onto the waiting scaffolding, leaving nothing but an expanse of bare brick to match the blank space in Bobby's mind.

"Where the hell did he go from here?"

xxxxx

"You don't ..."

The voice, barely more than a hoarse whisper, had come from a shadowy alcove in the corner of the cell. Sam had briefly glanced across to it when they had first been pushed into the dark, dusty hole, and dismissed what he saw there as a pile of discarded rags lying on the sandy floor.

"Who's there," he asked cautiously.

The pile of rags groaned and shuffled into a crooked sitting position, leaning weakly against the wall and even through the heavy shadows, both brothers immediately recognised the figure as the small wiry man who had been so viciously beaten by the guard those few hours ago. They both noticed how he made no move to emerge from the shadows into the lighter areas of the cell.

This was clearly a very frightened man.

They suddenly forgot about their own discomfort; the dirt and sweat coating their bodies, the raw welts around their wrists from the straps which bound them on their journey, the bruises they had sustained during their wild fight upon arrival, their numb asses and aching backs from sitting on a hard stone floor against a stone wall for these past hours. Compared to that poor, brutalised guy, their own discomforts were petty.

Squinting through the gloom at the forlorn figure, Dean's eyebrows took a slow march upwards as he noticed something he didn't expect to see given where - and when - they were; under the mottled expanse of bruising and dirt which coated the man's arms was a clearly visible 'Red Sox' tattoo.

"Red Sox?" Dean commented quietly so as not to spook the man, "pretty sure they weren't playin' in whatever-the-crap-this-is-BC."

"AD actually; about 150 AD," came the whispered response, following up with a throat clearing cough; "darn sand gets everywhere".

"Are you one of the guys who went missing at the Maple museum?" Sam asked, trying to shuffle on his aching, sand-caked ass across the floor toward the man, forgetting that his ankles were hobbled to Dean's. Dean grunted irritably, sighing as he was forced to shuffle butt-first across the floor after Sam. The guy was right; that freakin' sand did get evrywhere.

"Yeah," the man murmured through swollen, bloodied lips; "my name's Eric. I'm – I was - the curator of the exhibition."

"I'm Sam, this is my brother, Dean," Sam explained by way of a friendly introduction, tugging down his ill-fitting drab tunic which seemed to be riding up shorter with every movement he made. Dean directed a brief nod toward the shadowy figure.

"Where are the other guys?" Sam asked, "the two nightwatchmen and the cleaning contractor?"

Their companion shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled on abused muscles which were in no fit condition to move. "We're in a Gladiator training camp," he replied, "where d'y think they are?"

The brothers looked toward each other, pausing in thought for a moment before Dean spoke up; "dead?" he asked hesitantly, his voice lowering to barely a whisper.

"Yeah," came the response, voice audibly cracking; "all three of them, saw them carried back in from the arena one by one, carved up so bad, y'couldn't tell who was who."

Eric's head dipped further into shadow and he stared at the ground. "I hadn't ever seen a fresh dead body before," he murmured; "I'm a historian. I've seen dozens of bodies that have been dead for centuries, but somehow, seein' a guy you were talkin' to the previous night, wheeled back past you stretched out on a cart with his head lyin' between his ankles kinda affects you differently."

"Dude," Dean snapped urgently, his increasing concern momentarily masking his sympathy as a horrible thought struck him; "have you seen another guy here? Older than us; he'd be about sixty, stocky … with a beard."

Eric shook his head, stifling another cough; "nah, no-one like that round here."

"Thank god," the brothers breathed matching sighs of relief; it was the first scrap of positive news they'd had all day.

xxxxx

"So what the hell happened to us?" Dean asked.

"Apparently, we have been victims of the fabled curse of Emperor Gaius Posthumus," Eric replied bitterly.

Two pairs of widely enquiring eyes regarded him.

"Come again?"

"Don't tell me," he continued; "you woke up in a meadow beside a stream in the middle of nowhere feeling like crap?"

Sam nodded, "uh, yeah, that's about right".

"Well, I woke up in a stream beside a freakin' meadow," snorted Dean, "but yeah, the feelin' like crap bit works."

"Well, that meadow was part of the Emperor's estate. It's a place where he apparently spent many happy times and where his remains are buried," Eric explained; "not that there was much to bury once the tigers had finished with him."

"Oh, peachy," mumbled Dean.

"The legend says," Eric began, his confidence visibly building while sharing his expertise between his new friends, "that the Emperor's one aim in life was to stage 'the fight to end all fights' in honour of Mars, his patron God, the Roman God of War. He wanted a bout worthy of a deity that would go down in history; one that historians like me would still be talking about after thousands of years. It would be a fight that would forever be linked with his name, and earn him the favour of his God."

"He had Rome's finest stonemasons make a whole bunch of statues and carvings which were placed around the city. They all depicted violent and brutal scenes from gladiatorial fights, and into all of them, it was said that he had a powerful charm woven by the high priest of the temple of Mars to enable his spirit to linger through the ages and continue to gather men to fight for him until Mars received his worthy tribute.

The brothers stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief.

"It would seem we all get brought back here to this training camp at the time of the emperor's reign. He wants his glory as much as Mars wants his tribute." Eric huffed a bitter laugh; "we are the 'ex longe' - 'those from afar'; the people of Rome think we came from far flung places around the empire - they have no goddamn idea how 'afar' we're from."

"Do you believe all that crap?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"It's a legend. I'm a historian. I only deal in facts," came the blunt reply; "so, if you'd have asked me a week ago, I'd have told you it's only a legend, old Roman fairy stories that have developed into something more over time. Spirits and war gods and magic spells? Load of mumbo-jumbo, I don't … didn't ... believe any of it." He shrugged; "but then, here we are; what am I supposed to believe now?"

"Good point," Sam nodded thoughtfully.

"What about the other disappearances?" Dean asked curiously.

Eric's bruised shoulders gave a shrug. "When the statues were first made and placed around the city, the disappearances were only of random guys off the streets of Rome; low born, anonymous men that no-one would miss," he explained; "then as the empire began to fall, the pickings got slimmer, the city got sacked time and time again and over the centuries most of the statues were destroyed until only one remained."

"That big bas-relief at the exhibition," Sam confirmed, glancing sideways as Dean mouthed 'what the friggin' hell is a bas-relief?' under his breath.

"It lay ignored, buried under rubble for centuries until it was eventually excavated a few years ago, and since then it has travelled around the world, in various museums and various exhibitions, always accompanied by these stories of random guys disappearing.

The three men fell silent and looked up as a guard walked past their door, peering into the cell. He squinted in curious ignorance as Dean offered him a single finger along with a contemptuous frown.

"So," Sam kneaded his forehead wearily; "if these guys have been disappearing, how could the authorities not believe the curse was true?"

Eric burrowed back against the wall and nervously dropped his voice knowing that the guard was still around, "the powers that be were convinced it was pranksters just using the curse as an excuse to cause trouble, troublemakers and criminals using it as a cover to abduct people, or vanish themselves; oh, everyone had lots of perfectly logical explanations for it; well, far more logical explanations than stories about ghosts and gods, anyway.

In the end, over the last few years, the exhibition stopped including anything about the curse in the hope that it would gradually stop these disappearances as people forgot all about it."

"Yeah, good call;" Dean huffed sourly, "worked like a charm."

xxxxx

A tense silence settled briefly between the three men.

"Okay, so let's forget for a moment that we've been shot back in time by some psycho haunted lump of rock to fight for some dead douchewad and his inflated ego," Dean grunted dismissively, "How do we get outta here?"

"You forget 'when' you are," Eric replied matter-of-factly; "he's not dead yet, he's very much alive and kicking and looking forward to seeing us fight."

"Great," Dean muttered under his breath; "that rules out burning the bones then."

"You said we couldn't get back," Sam prompted, looking at the hunched, hollow-eyed man beside them; "how do you know?"

Eric sighed deeply; "well I don't know, but we can't go back to our lives the way we came, so I don't see how any of us can get back," he replied; "but whatever, I guess I know where all this ends for me. I'm trying not to think about it, it just makes me want to puke."

Sam's face softened in sympathy. "Hey buddy, we'll all stick together, look after each other."

"I appreciate the thought," the response came quietly and shakily, "but you can't help me when I'm standing out there in the arena in front of some massive gorilla with a sword that weighs more than me."

The brothers exchanged glances.

"I'm not a fighter," Eric shrugged in defeated resignation; "I've never hurt another living soul in my life. I'm a vegetarian, I weigh just about one hundred twenty, I read my books, I organise my museum exhibitions, I watch the Red Sox whenever I get the chance, I ride my bike when the weather's fair and I run half marathons for the local hospice; that's as brutal as my life gets."

He looked up out of the shadows at the brothers, and for the first time they saw the tears in his eyes; "and I'm shit scared man; oh God, so freakin' scared."

"Okay," Dean spoke up firmly, "we're all gonna get a grip here; you're our expert on this stuff, we need your brain. We're all gonna get out of this, you're going back to your museum and we're going back to our – uh – lives, y'hear me?"

The lie came easy. With Eric's knowledge and their brawn, Dean was sure they could find a way out.

They had to believe there was a way.

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Sam spoke up to break the tense silence which had fallen between the three men; "so what happens now?" he asked.

"What happens now?" Eric began, pulling in a deep breath with immense effort; "you'll both undergo physical trials to test your strength and co-ordination; you'll be tested against various opponents and Lanista, the fat guy with a face like some ugly dude's ass, he'll decide what type of fighter you'll be depending on your strengths and weaknesses. Then, if you two are as badass as you look, it won't be long before you debut in the arena."

"Screw that," snorted Dean; "I ain't layin' my ass on the line for these friggin' douchebags."

"They'll give you new names," Eric added; "names worthy of a gladiator."

"What do they call you?" asked Sam, turning to Eric before Dean had a chance to voice his opinions.

"They don't yet," he replied; "I guess I'm just too insignificant. I'm never gonna top any bill in the arena, I'll be trotted out as some expendable stooge for the proper fighters." He smiled shakily, "I think, in later years, my sort became known as 'cannon fodder'."

Sam shook his head, lips pressed bloodlessly tight in silent fury. "They can't do that to you; this might be ancient Rome, but you're still human."

"You'll become their fighting machine and they'll use you as they see fit," Eric went on, ignoring Sam's meaningless reassurances. "Life will be one long round of harsh training and drilling, violent combat, injuries, more harsh training, more injuries and then finally the fight that you don't walk away from."

Dean's lips curled into a dangerous scowl; "well, if they think we're just gonna stand by like a pair of pussies and let them take over our lives, they can take a goddamn hike." he snorted, growing angrier by the minute; "we're gonna bust out of this craphole and if they think that was a fight we gave them earlier, then they've got a rude shock comin', we'll give them freakin' Armageddon."

"Dean, lets …" Sam could see the fuse had been lit, and tried to effect his most calming tone. This cell was way too small for a full-on Dean conniption.

"They can't do this to us … we've got FREAKIN' RIGHTS," Dean yelled furiously, kicking a shower of sand toward the massive grating that served as a door.

Eric took a deep breath. "Okay, you say you need my knowledge, so let me tell you a couple of facts about ancient Rome that might just keep you alive;" he spoke firmly, displaying an inner steel that silenced both brothers.

"Firstly, you have no rights, okay? In this society, gladiators were lower than slaves, the lowest of the low. In fact, you are less important to these guys than the dogs out there in the yard that keep the rats down, so if you give them trouble, they won't think twice to treat you like they would a dog they can't tame. They'd put you down without blinking."

He paused for a moment to let the impact of his words sink in.

"So if you do want to stand a chance of working out how you're gonna get away from here and, more importantly, get back to our world; you're gonna need time, and to buy yourself that you're gonna have to swallow your pride and do as you're told."

He hesitated, staring up at the brothers. Sam's eyes registered reluctant understanding, whilst Dean's blazed with furious belligerence.

"Secondly, busting out of this place is going to be hard enough, but in terms of getting back to our time, I've thought about little else, and the only way that makes any sense to me would be to win your freedom."

Two furrowed brows stared back at him.

"If a Gladiator won enough fights or impressed the crowd enough, he could win his freedom from his emperor," Eric began; "it would usually take a man years, a lifetime in the arena to achieve his freedom. But maybe if you were to give this Posthumus asshole his stupid 'fight to end all fights' you could, assuming you survive, win your freedom I guess."

"Does that mean if we got to do that, we could get back to our time?" Dean asked urgently.

Eric shrugged; "don't know man; there's not exactly a precedent for this sort of thing." He reflected silently for a moment; "but it might help."

The three men froze in a sudden silence as footsteps approached.

"Whatever you do, you're gonna need to decide real soon," Eric whispered nervously, shuffling backwards into the alcove where he had initially been resting as a key sounded in the lock and the grating swung open.

"I think your life as a gladiator is about to begin."

xxxxx

Dapper gentleman about town, Bob Chanteur, walked despondently away from the closed museum.

Thoughts and worries whirled around his head; questions assaulted his mind. Where were the boys? What the hell was he going to do now the exhibition was closed? Had his toes fallen off yet?

He needed caffeine; LOTS of caffeine.

Oh yeah, and he needed new shoes.

Happily, the town boasted an excellent coffee house which just happened to be nestled cosily alongside a shoe store and a news stand.

Standing behind the welcoming wooden counter, a young barista warmly thanked the smiling middle-aged gentleman in the smart suit and shiny black loafers with the label still stuck on the bottom. She liked him; he reminded her of her grandfather and he'd dropped a dollar into her tip-jar as he picked up his large double-shot Americano and slice of fruitcake.

He looked distracted, worried even, as he placed his tray down on a small table squirrelled away in the corner of the building and slipped a folded copy of the local newspaper out from under his arm.

She'd see he got a free refill. He looked like he could do with it.

xxxxx

Bobby sipped his coffee as he read the report on the exhibition's closure.

"HAS THE CURSE HIT?" the headline shrieked, and Bobby pondered.

He'd read a few obscure references to the curse of Posthumus over the internet that had piqued his curiosity, but not enough to give him any inspiration. The generally accepted view seemed to be that it was a load of hokum which official sources were careful not to encourage and that any disappearances that fuelled it could be adequately explained by mischief, alcohol or a combination of both, so useful facts had been frustratingly hard to come by.

Bobby needed to know more; he knew enough about the world to know that hokum usually had a basis in fact. And he also suddenly knew what he had to do. He drained his coffee enthusiastically, politely declining the free refill that the pretty young barista offered and snarfed the last few crumbs of his fruitcake.

An abandoned exhibition sitting idle in an empty museum for a few days before it's all packed up and shipped back to Rome?

The respectable Bob Chanteur may be newly-retired, but he was about to embark on a new line of work …

Breaking and entering.

xxxxx

The brothers froze against the wall as the hollow scrape of key in lock preceded the pained creak of the heavy grating swinging openinto the dim space toward them.

Despite their seemingly dire circumstances, Dean was mildly satisfied to see that the Lanista had felt it necessary to bring a delegation of six burly guards to protect him from his new treasures.

With a sharp grunt of command, he gestured casually toward the six thugs standing around him and then toward the Winchesters. A pustulent smirk spread across his bloated jowls as his eyes trailed with discomforting admiration over Winchesters, making them squirm.

"We can take 'em," Dean whispered, "they're pussies; one of them's limping and …"

"Remember what Eric said;" Sam hissed back sharply; we gotta buy ourselves some time."

Dean scowled darkly. Common sense be damned; he still preferred the option of going down fighting.

Against their every instinct, the brothers swallowed back the urge to lash out as the six massive figures closed around them and, without ceremony or word, snapped iron shackles around their wrists before releasing their ankles to enable them to walk.

Stumbling toward the door courtesy of a fist thrust harshly into the small of his back, Dean glanced sideways to see Sam standing beside him as they were both goaded forward by their unfriendly entourage.

Behind them Eric's bruised body burrowed back against the wall and he sat, drawing his knees up to his chest. He closed his eyes in despair and wondered if he would ever see his friends again.

xxxxx

"Dude, I'm wearing a frickin skirt," Dean grumbled, deeply uncomfortable at the unfamiliar sensation of the warm, humid air billowing around his bare legs as the brothers were frogmarched barefoot through the soulless grounds of the training camp . "I can take bein' beaten half senseless, but do they have to make me look like a freakin' dick as they do it?"

"It's a slave's tunic," Sam replied flatly, keeping his voice low; "it just shows your status as a peasant."

"That's not all it shows," Dean snorted, his manacled hands clumsily and unsuccessfully attempting to tug down the frayed hem of the drab garment.

"Tell me about it," sighed Sam, for once cursing his extra height.

He stumbled forward with a breathless grunt as the head of a club struck him between the shoulder blades.

Eventually, the brothers found themselves standing in the familiar dusty yard where they had first been dragged out of the cart. Around them, a sagging rope fence measured out a small enclosure; it could have been a boxing ring.

They both watched through narrowed eyes as their Lanista casually stepped back toward a specially placed chair beside the ropes. Arranging his voluminous robes, he sprawled back into it, settling like a liquid, and smiled his reptilian, toothless smile. His yellowing eyes, glimmering with expectation, had suddenly fixed intently on Dean and it was only as Dean turned away to look across the roped ground to Sam, who stood cursing and squirming furiously between the six guards holding him back, that he caught sight of what he presumed was to be his 'sparring partner'.

There weren't many people in the world who, it could truthfully be said, made Sam look small; but Dean's eyes widened in fascinated horror as they scanned the behemoth who had stepped from his peripheral vision into his direct line of sight and now stood before him.

Mouth hanging open in wordless awe, Dean stared unblinking at the looming titan, starting at the massive dirt-caked bare feet planted deep into the sun-caked ground, all the way up to his vast, darkly stubbled crown; taking in on the way, herculean calves bulging like two trapped piglets, and gleaming, musclebound thighs each of which were broader than Dean's chest.

Wearing only an untidily wrapped grey loincloth held fast by a thick leather belt, the man's sculpted, mahogany brown torso stood high and wide and rugged. An Everest made flesh and bone which almost blotted out Dean's daylight. His face was heavy and square, weathered to a deep nut-brown and ravaged by a life of brutality. A long, ragged scar ran haphazardly from his right temple to his mighty lantern jaw, all but obliterating his right eye.

His one remaining eye stared intently at Dean with ill-disguised contempt.

The nightmarish Goliath stood stock-still. Mighty knotted arms, longer and thicker than Dean's legs, outstretched; inviting any foolish challenge, and in his right hand he clutched a wooden training sword. Although not a real blade, it looked a fearsome enough weapon; long, substantial and sufficiently tapering to inflict a serious wound if wielded fiercely enough. In this man's elephantine grip it looked comically tiny; like a child's toy.

"Holy crap," Dean croaked weakly; "I thought mammoths were freakin' extinct."

Dean glanced back across at Sam who had momentarily stopped fighting against his guards and stood, like his brother, staring blankly at the newcomer, chin dangling somewhere around ground level.

Posturing like a king on a throne, the Lanista waved a hand airily in Dean's direction, and one of his attending guards stepped forward to unlock the shackles on Dean's wrists, handing him another wooden sword as he did so.

Dean glanced down at the sword; it was identical to the one the sun-baked monolith was waving at him, but in Dean's hand it actually looked like a goddamn sword, and not a freakin' cocktail stick.

His mind whirled as he tried to think of all the golden rules of fighting a bigger, heavier adversary; did he have to use this stupid pigsticker or could he just get down and dirty with his fists, his feet – even his goddamn teeth if that's what it took?

What about Sam; was he going to have to fight someone even bigger? Holy shit; they really could die here – what a stupid way to …

"DEAN!"

Dean was so lost in a whirling tumult of thoughts and questions, he barely heard Sam's panicked cry a split second before the force of a hundred freight trains struck him in the side of the face.

xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

A crimson-tinged mist of sweat and blood stained the air as Dean reeled from the shocking force of the blow, his sword flying out of his hand and skittering across the uneven ground away from him. Stumbling sideways, he pirouetted clumsily on legs like water, tilting nauseously as he struggled to maintain some kind of equilibrium.

Somewhere, a long, long way away, amidst a concerto of tweeting birds and ringing bells, he could hear Sam's frantic voice calling out his name.

His world spun and whirled; a nebula of floating stars twinkled and blinked around him. Cautiously opening his eyes, he could just make out, through the tear-hazed, wheeling chaos, Sam's blurred form across the enclosure struggling and bucking like an unbroken mustang as he fought furiously to break free of his shackles, and the increasingly traumatised guards who were clinging onto him with grim determination.

Spitting a sticky ribbon of bloody foam into the ground, Dean blinked wildly as his eyes began to refocus, and the stomach-churning thrill-ride that his world had become began to ease back to something approaching bearable.

He regained his wits just in time to see the grinning giant bear down on him again, sword raised and ready to sweep. The predator had scented the blood of his prey, and was moving in for the kill.

Dean instinctively leapt backwards, feeling the draught, and hearing the whine as the tip of the wooden blade slashed past his chest, close enough to rip open the coarse fabric of his tunic. He stumbled back with a gasp; that would have damn near cut him in half if he hadn't got out of its way.

"DEAN!"

There was Sam again, still raising Cain and practically dragging his four frantic guards plus, Dean noted, two reinforcements across the enclosure in his desperate attempt to wade into the fray and help Dean; Dean made a brief mental note to congratulate Sam on managing to draw so much blood using only his elbows and his head.

Another whistling slash; this time Dean ducked as the wooden sword arcked across the air above his head.

He could feel his heart pounding wildly ; his whole body pulsing with the sheer force of the adrenaline racing around his battered system, driving him dangerously close to hyperventilating. This was freakin' serious; this lunatic could kill him if he didn't get his ass in gear right now.

"DEAN, HERE …"

Dean didn't dare pull his eyes away from the advancing titan, but his instinct told him that Sam had managed to drag his struggling entourage just far enough across the ring to be able to kick Dean's sword back toward him before they had managed to overpower him.

But Dean ignored it, he knew he was better off without the damn thing as he darted forward, shimmying sideways to avoid a violent sword thrust ramrod straight toward his belly.

"Hey, Jabba," he yelled, his voice bubbling through foamy blood, as he landed a socking haymaker into his opponent's rock hard flank.

To Dean's dismay, the blow which was hard enough to rattle his knuckles all the way up to his shoulder and back down the other side, seemed to do little more than inconvenience rather than hurt the man, and Dean found himself on the receiving end again as an enormous musclebound forearm whipped round and caught him across the ribs, carrying him through the air like a rag doll before gravity took over, dumping him unceremoniously on his ass halfway across the enclosure.

xxxxx

Dean now knew he wasn't going to be able to win this bout by his own strength and power alone. He was strong, sure; way stronger than most guys he knew, but a sense of realism was the key here. Even a charging bull couldn't bring down a mountain.

His racing mind considered his only other advantage - speed. He was much faster and more nimble than Godzilla here, who lumbered around with the speed and agility of a continental drift, but … one swipe, that's all it would would take; one lucky swipe of those massive gorilla arms would take his goddamn head off.

No, he couldn't take the chance of prolonging this farce; he had to end it and he had to end it now.

Life had taught him that when all else failed there was one specific technique which could be applied to good effect when fighting someone much bigger, heavier and stronger than you.

It was called cheating.

xxxxx

Rolling over and grimacing at the sting of his grazed, sand-caked butt-cheeks, Dean clambered to his feet, trying to calm his breathing as his battered lungs fought for the air that had been so rudely displaced as he was flung onto his back. He knew what he had to do; there was only going to be one way he could immobilise this monster.

Taking a few tentative steps back from his approaching doom, he took the deepest breath he could manage and stooped deeply to ensure that he would be under the range of the giant's colossal arm, and more importantly the deadly lump of wood he was wielding. Then he sprang forward, one … two … three strides, throwing the full weight of his one hundred eighty pounds behind the charge, and violently rammed the top of his head with the force of a jackhammer into the gargantuan jewels bulging underneath the loincloth.

He gave a satisfied smirk as he heard the roar of agony that sounded before the giant man imploded, his weapon falling limply from his hand as he staggered forwards and dropped helplessly to his knees, clutching his battered vitals with great tears, worthy of a man-mountain, rolling down his cheeks.

Dean acted swiftly, grabbing the mighty head by the ears, forcefully pulling it down, just as he violently thrust a knee up to meet it.

There came a satisfying crack of kneecap meeting bridge of nose, and the huge body went limp, faceplanting heavily into the ground like a felled oak.

Dean stumbled backwards, panting and listing sideways as he curled a protective arm around his bruised ribs, and turned defiantly on the Lanista.

"There," he roared, stepping over the inert body; "hope you're satisfied you oily, fat, sonofabitch." Lanista sat, bulging lazily over the edges of his seat, staring impassively back at him; a faint smirk of approval playing across his stubbled jowls.

xxxxx

Dean hobbled urgently back across to Sam who, along with six bleeding, dishevelled attendants, stood frozen in mute shock.

"You okay?"

Sam nodded, wide eyed in awe. "Dude, you totally nutted his – uh – nuts!"

Dean scowled; "Yeah well they were too freakin' far up to reach with my knee. He spat another bloodstained gobbet of foam into the grey dust around his feet, wiping the back of a dusty hand across his split lip.

"I never had my face that close to …" he shuddered with a queasy grimace; "… never mind."

Sam watched as a team of harried slaves ran past them with a stretcher that appeared to be comically inadequate for the task in hand; "I get the impression, I was supposed to fight him after you."

"Well, looks like you're off the hook for now," Dean groaned, sinking to his knees as he cradled the rapidly swelling and darkening bruise across his cheekbone with a shaking hand.

Sam reached out his shackled hands, shooting a defiant glare of molten fury to his cowering escort that suggested a swift and violent death en mass if they made a single move to stop him, and cupped Dean's drooping head in a gesture of support.

His guards stood by meekly and allowed it.

xxxxx

The rotting sash on the museum window groaned painfully as Bobby painstakingly inched it upwards before heaving his body up onto the sill and pouring himself through the still-too-narrow gap. He let out an involuntary yelp of shock as he tumbled clumsily into an unco-ordinated heap, displacing a pile of books.

Damnit, he was getting too old for this.

Rolling slowly over, he glanced up through the darkness which shrouded the abandoned building, blinking and hesitating to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Having impatiently pounded the streets all day waiting for twilight to fall, he was wired from way too much caffeine and buzzing with the urgency of the job in hand.

xxxxx

He wandered round the lifeless room; through a haphazard jumble of packing crates and wrapped exhibits, losing himself in the darkening shadows as he paced among the looming shapes. His flashlight beam weaved and fluttered around the room, highlighting everything … and nothing.

He was suddenly distracted by a sound; jumping slightly as he heard a stuttering, crackling beep.

His EMF Meter crackled into life, and he clutched it, fiddling with the frequency like a set of worry beads as he continued to pace slowly and randomly around the room.

As he moved between the shrouded exhibits, the meter's feedback increased in volume and urgency until he found himself standing in a spot at which it worked itself into a frenzy.

Cautiously lifting the edge of a massive white sheet hanging beside him, he groaned as he saw what was revealed under it.

The huge stone block bearing the carving of the two brawling gladiators stared back at him.

Bobby shuddered, and let out a deep sigh.

If there was a spirit, that meant there definitely was a curse.

And if the curse was the same one that he'd been reading about, then that meant he finally knew where - and when - the boys were.

He closed his eyes and pulled in a long, shaky breath.

Sometimes ignorance really was bliss.

xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

Bobby stood among the veils of cobwebs in the gloom of his basement, peering into a glowing crucible which stood in the centre of a rickety wooden table in front of him. The embers within the crucible flickered and squirmed, glowing crimson and already the heat from them was overpowering.

He had decided, back there at the museum yesterday, what he needed to do. Information on the curse was infuriatingly scant; the preserve, it seemed, of cranks and conspiracy theorists. Most respectable historians and students of the Roman era passed it off as nonsense, a bit of spice added to the Posthumus legend over the centuries - as if the man wasn't objectionable enough without it.

A tiny spark popped from the crucible, and Bobby felt the heat against his skin as it caught in his beard. Swearing quietly under his breath, he patted it out and grimaced against the faint odour of singed hair that assaulted his nose.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled handkerchief, and allowed it to fall open into the palm of his hand, revealing the fragments of rock and dust that it contained. Fragments painstakingly chipped from the cursed statue with Bobby's very own pen-knife.

He knew that what he was about to do was serious shit. He'd only ever done it a couple of times before, and even then, only to summon the spirit of some insignificant nobody; this time he was messing with the spirit of a mighty Roman Emperor; and not one of the more friendly ones, either. He wouldn't have been too proud to admit to anyone that right at that moment he was about as nervous as he had ever been in his life.

Clearing his throat, he licked his dry lips as he began to recite the incantation, sprinkling some of the stone fragments into the burning crucible as he spoke.

xxxxx

At first, he thought he was doing something wrong. Glancing uneasily around the darkness, he could see that nothing of any note seemed to be happening. He was on the verge of giving up, when he began to see a faint blur of imperial purple materialising against the back wall.

As the flickering, transparent image continued to form, ebbing and flowing like spring tide, Bobby could see the same profoundly ugly man whose bulbous, saggy jowls and thin-lipped sneer had been depicted in the bust that had drawn him away from the boys that first night back in the museum. The figure wore heavy, lavish robes, but they were threadbare and shabby, the frayed hems pooling on the floor around it.

Bobby stared at the spirit, fascinated. It looked drawn and weary; although grossly fat, it somehow also managed to look gaunt and somewhat tortured. The posture was slumped and broken, with a drooping head that spoke of surrender and intense suffering. It wasn't what Bobby had been expecting at all.

"I'm guessin' you're Gaius Posthumus," Bobby broke the silence, licking his dry lips and willing his voice not to falter as he stared at the wavering image drifting in and out of opacity like oil on water.

"That is who I am;" the figure responded, without looking up at Bobby, in a strange combination of archaic latin and broken English, enough of each for Bobby to be able to understand what was being said. The voice floated across the room, reedy and thin and distinctly unimpressive.

"Good," Bobby announced, dispensing with any initial sympathy he might have felt; "you an' me are gonna talk; that is I'm gonna talk and you're gonna give me some answers. I don't care no shit for the fact you were an emperor. You ain't nothing but a flicker of spiritual energy now, an' I can snuff you out easy as spit."

The spirit's head drooped even lower, managing nothing more than a cursory nod on the way down.

"I wanna know all about your 'curse'," Bobby folded his arms across his chest defiantly, deciding that bluntness was the way to go; "and I mean 'everything'."

There was a long pause before the figure spoke in a voice barely above a whisper; "it was not a curse - not at first."

Bobby gestured impatiently to the spirit to continue.

"I loved the games," it began, a faint smile spreading across it's thin, froglike mouth as it thought back to those halcyon days; "the thrill of forcing those men to fight like beasts for my entertainment; the power of holding their life in my hands was compelling; intoxicating."

Pausing as it regarded Bobby's silent contempt, the emporer's spirit continued. "The people of Rome loved me for entertaining them, pandering to them; they cried my name, baying for more games and more blood, and I delivered eagerly."

Bobby's scowl had 'you sick sonofabitch' written all over it.

"My love of the games became such that I eventually drained the funds of Rome dry. My army went without food, anarchy descended, and I was forced to tax the populace more and more just to feed my people and my obsession. Not only that, I drained the streets of Rome of men to feed the mob's appetite for blood and death.

The spirit fingered the threadbare hem of its robes; "I was the Emperor of Mighty Roman Empire and I was destitute."

"Go on," growled Bobby.

"At this time, I knew my senate, my advisors and the imperial family had lost trust in me," the spirit mumbled grimly, tugging the ragged mouldering robe around a corpulent shoulder; "they began to see their own positions and prosperity being jeopardised by my excesses. I began to fear for my life and, more importantly, for my immortal life."

"Emperors of Rome were always deified after death," snorted Bobby; "why should you have worried?"

The figure nodded miserably; "the noble Augustus, the mighty Claudius … so many of my predecessors were welcomed into the pantheon of the gods. But for that to take place, the emperor's elevation had to be enabled by the agreement of his successor who would commune with the gods to ensure his acceptance."

"I knew that would not be my destiny," the spirit moaned; "I was despised by those who had power over my immortal soul, so I took matters into my own hands, and made a pact with the priests of Mars. To guarantee my entry into the halls of the gods, I would stage history's greatest fight between the two mightiest warriors I could find and dedicate it to the great War God."

"From that point, my obsession became darker, more dangerous. I secretly oversaw the role of Lanista at my own training camp so that I could be closer to the games, control the training and gauge the standard of the fighters."

"I fashioned the 'collecting stones', and the word of my Lord Mars was written into them with the blood of a sacrificed bull to help me find more and more people whilst no longer pillaging the empire for fighters."

"I lost any last trace of humanity I ever had as my life descended into a nightmarish hell of taking whoever the collecting stones found in increasingly futile attempts to achieve my promise. I worked without pity or remorse; their lives slipped through my hands like water, and I never even gave them a second thought as my desire to please my great warrior God increased."

"But I failed," he groaned; "my end came abruptly and I had not delivered on my promise."

"And thus I find myself here. For centuries my spirit has existed in torment; abandoned and punished by my Lord Mars, exhausted, broken, cold and lonely, doomed to oversee the eternal search for the fighter who will deliver my pledge and open the gates of eternity, where I may take my seat beside the great Warrior God and find the peace and acceptance I crave."

A long silence fell as the spirit sunk into quiet reflection, it seemed to break just a little more with every word it uttered.

"As time has gone on, and my collecting stones have been lost and destroyed, my opportunities to succeed have dwindled, and so I have had to employ the remaining stone to gather more combatants."

The spirit sighed deeply.

"If my last stone is lost, my Lord Mars' disappointment will be severe and I will face his wrath for all eternity."

xxxxx

Bobby stood, arms folded defensively and glared at the spirit.

"Well boo-frickin'-hoo;" he goaded; "You and your sick, bloated ego have been responsible for slaughtering countless guys throughout the ages, and you expect me to feel sorry for you because you're a bit pissed and lonely?"

The spirit's sunken, watery eyes continued to stare at the ground.

"You're a vile, bloodthirsty sonofabitch;" Bobby snapped; "your damn stone took my two boys, and now you're gonna tell me how I can get them back here safe and well."

The crestfallen spirit shook it's head slowly.

"There is no way back," it replied blankly; "except to provide what I need. That will be the wage of triumph."

Bobby considered the spirit's words, thinking long and hard, and felt his chest tighten as a terrible thought occurred to him. He looked up to see the spirit of Emperor Gaius Posthumus flicker and drift as the embers within the crucible began to cool.

Setting his jaw, Bobby pulled himself to his full height, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans; "right, time's wastin'," he announced with a confidence he didn't feel; "and I'm done listenin' to your whinin'."

The spirit's outline was fading with every word he spoke, he knew that if he was going to help the boys, it was now or never. "You make me sick, and nothing, I mean nothing, would give me more pleasure than to douse this fire and send you back into whatever cold, dark nowhere Mars has had you rotting in all this time for the rest of eternity," Bobby stated angrily; "but I'm not; I'm going to help you. God help me, I'm going to help you because in doing so I'll help the boys."

The spirit's translucent form nodded feebly.

"I need you to get a message to them. A message that I'm going to write now. You're going to let them see this message without letting your asshole still-alive self know. Am I making myself understood?"

Another nod from the barely-visible form.

Bobby turned away from the spirit and picked up a piece of paper and a ballpoint. He leaned over the dusty tabletop and began to write furiously.

"place your message into the flames," a barely audible voice whispered behind him.

"I warn you," Bobby growled; "If I don't get those boys back safely - and soon, I'll summon you again and trust me, what I'll do to you will make anything freakin' Mars can manage seem like a summer picnic."

Folding the paper, he dropped it into the crucible and stood watching forlornly as it crumpled into crimson ash.

xxxxx

The morning had dawned warm and humid and Dean's sore, sleep-hazed eyes flickered open to long shadows creeping across the small cell that he, Sam and Eric had been forced to call home for the last few days.

He slowly rolled over on the limp sack of straw that served as a mattress and groaned as his battered ribs protested the movement. Since their impressive performance in the training yard, the brothers had been pitted relentlessly against adversaries of every shape, size and ability and they were bruised and bloody, broken in both mind and body, and utterly, utterly exhausted.

As his eyes gradually drifted into focus, Dean noticed a scrap of paper folded beneath the edge of his mattress. It was blackened and creased, and he could smell the faint odour of smoke around it.

Glancing at Sam, sprawled uncomfortably across another thin straw sack, he unfolded the paper, fumbling with stiff fingers, and his breathing hitched sharply as he read the first word.

xxxxx

Idjits.

I know what happened to you, and now I also know, for sure, there is only one way back for you. You have got to provide this sonofabitch with his fight to end all fights. This is your only ticket back.

Only the two fighters who provide this will be able to return to their time, whether alive or dead. This means for both of you to get back, you will have to fight each other.

You're gonna have to make it a good one boys, real good.

But, please, not TOO Good.

B.

xxxxx

Dean stared across at his fitfully sleeping brother and crushed the piece of paper into his fist.

He felt sick.

xxxxx

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

As Sam drifted back into wakefulness after an uncomfortable, hot and fretful night's sleep, he gradually began to wish he hadn't. He felt dirty, about as dirty and rancid as he had ever felt. He itched and ached all over from sleeping on a thin, lumpy mattress that appeared to be composed as much of horse-dung and insects as it was of straw and worst of all, he stunk; absolutely reeked. He was sure he'd dug up corpses that smelled fresher than he did right now.

He was beginning to wish that Dean hadn't been quite so forceful in sending away the unfortunate slave who had timidly ventured into their cell yesterday with a pitcher of scented oil and a strigil hanging on his belt. When Eric had quietly explained what the slave was intending to do with his tools, Dean's outraged punch had sent the poor man flying, together with oil and strigil, back out the way he came without troubling to open the door first.

But the worst thing about waking up on this particular morning was the look on Dean's face.

At first, Sam was mildly concerned that Dean didn't seem to be in any better shape than he did. The musk of perspiration hung heavy over him, his hair clung limply to his sweat-dampened forehead, framing a face which looked gaunt, bloodlessly grey with a faint patina of grime and bruising. What alarmed Sam the most, however, was the look of bone-cold, frozen horror that had glazed Dean's eyes as they stared blankly at him. Had Dean been sitting awake all night watching him? He looked so exhausted and crushed, it seemed a distinct possibility. His lips were slightly parted, as if he was about to speak but something, fear or confusion perhaps, had stolen his voice.

"Dude," Sam asked hesitantly, sitting up slowly and painfully; "what's wrong."

Dean took a deep breath, running his tongue over his dry lips as he held out his hand to Sam. Taking what was offered, Sam looked down at a crumpled, ash-stained scrap of paper.

He looked up to Dean and his eyes asked the question.

xxxxx

"Read it," croaked Dean, gesturing toward the paper with a shaking hand.

Sam unscrewed the note and began to read, sucking in a sharp breath as he read the first word.

"Idjits."

Wide eyes looked up at Dean, "Bobby," he gasped, almost daring to feel relieved; "where'd this come from?"

"I found it under my mattress," Dean replied hastily, not caring about the details; "read it," he choked.

Sam read on, knowing full well that Dean was studying every nuance of his facial expression as he did so. By the time he reached the end of the hastily scribbled note, he was wearing an expression of dread that perfectly matched Dean's.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath; "it makes perfect sense. It's just like Eric said; the ones that achieve this honour will earn their freedom – but unless we're both in the same fight, that's only going to happen to one of us."

"Perhaps Bobby's wrong," Dean gasped, pointing to the note; the empty hope in his words was heartbreaking. He didn't believe it any more than Sam did.

Sam shook his head; "dude, this is Bobby," He replied dismissively; "you know he'd never put us in a position of harm unless there was totally no alternative. He'd have turned the world upside down looking for answers before he sent us this message."

Dean looked into his lap and sighed. He knew Sam was right; Bobby would have moved heaven and earth to seek any solution other than this.

"I can't do it Sam;" he stated flatly; "I've spent my entire life protecting you and now the only way we can survive this crap is to try to kill each other. It's like a goddamn nightmare."

Sam scraped a hand through his hair. "I dunno Dean, it might not come to that; we've sparred together all our lives. We can practically read each others' minds when it comes to fighting; we might be able to fake it somehow."

"You don't get it, do you?" Dean snapped; "that was sparring and wrestling. Play fighting. This is real; they're gonna give us weapons, swords and knives and shit, and they'll expect us to use them," he pulled in a deep breath, struggling to keep his composure. "These guys have fought all their lives, they watch these fights every day; they'll know what's real and what's fake. Nothing less than a fight to the death will satisfy these sonsofbitches."

Sam tried to remain calm; he could see Dean was close to the edge, and if he were to be honest with himself, so was he. "Okay, we give each other a couple of nicks then," Sam suggested; "draw a bit of blood, give them what they want. Eric says they stop a lot of fights before anyone gets killed otherwise they lose too many gladiators and then it gets expensive and time-consuming; if we fight well enough and long enough, I'm sure they'd do that, an' even if they didn't, there's nothing on earth they could do to us that would make us kill each other." He shrugged; "and if that's not good enough for them then, I dunno, we'll just have to find another way."

"Of course, there's no guarantee we'll get pitted against each other," he added; "we'd have to engineer it."

"Don't bother," Dean snapped; "there's lots of good fighters here; earn your freakin' freedom fighting against one of them. I'd rather spend the rest of my days rotting here than earn mine knowing I had to hurt or, god forbid, kill you to do it."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, and sucked in a long deep breath, feeling his exasperation bubbling under the surface. "No way, dude; don't you talk like this, don't you dare. You're fighting me. We're going to get back to our ordinary lives. They might not be much to shout about, but they're better than this crap." He pulled in a few deep breaths in an attempt to compose himself; "do you think I wanna fight you, hurt you?" he snorted; "no, 'course I don't - but if it means we get our lives back, then I'll do it, and if you're pissed at me about it, you're welcome to kick my ass into next week when we get back to Bobby's."

"You might have to get in line after him though," Sam added.

Dean opened his mouth to speak but Sam continued regardless.

"There's no way I'm going to try to get back to my life knowing that I'm leaving you rotting here waiting to be carved up by some asshole with a big sword," Sam railed; "no dude, if you wanna go all touchy-feely pacifist on me, then I'm staying too."

Dean's face tightened in petulant anger as his head drooped; "but Sam what …"

Sam cut him off. "What, why … nothing." You stay, I stay. You want me to earn my freedom? You've gotta fight me and hurt me; and I've gotta do the same to you."

Dean looked up and Sam could see tears of frustrated anger and bone-cold fear shining in his eyes. "I hate you," he snorted bitterly, his jaw clenching in unspoken fury.

"Good," Sam replied airily; "that'll help to make it a bit more convincing."

xxxxx

A long, tense silence settled between the two men; it was eventually Dean that spoke up, keeping his voice to a whisper.

"What about Eric?" he asked, gesturing toward the third man in the cell with his head, relieved to be able to change the subject.

Sam turned to stare at the sleeping figure, burrowed against the wall in the corner; "we'll see he's okay, won't we?" He looked up at Dean, pleading silently for reassurance.

Dean nodded, forcing a shaky smile that fell well short of his eyes; "yeah, we'll figure something out …"

"Figure what out?

Both Winchesters looked up sharply as a weary voice sounded from the other side of the cell. There was a rustle as Eric stirred, and sat up to look over at his two cell-mates.

Sam abruptly screwed the piece of paper into his fist and smiled weakly; "Oh, uh nothing much, he smiled, glancing across to Dean for some support; "just trying to figure out …"

"… trying to figure out how to get our asses out of this dump," Dean interrupted.

Eric shrugged and stretched the kinks out of his neck after the same sort of long, hot uncomfortable night that both brothers had endured.

He sat, blinking blearily, squinting through the gloom of the cell at the comings and goings of slaves and other fighters on the other side of the heavy grating; concentrating on something that seemed to have captured his attention.

xxxxx

"Have you figured anything out yet?" He asked, scooting over toward the brothers after a few moments.

Dean shook his head, "working on it," he sighed, flicking a knowing glance at Sam.

"Well," Eric replied, an icy fear sharpening his voice; "you'd better figure something out soon. I was just listenting to those slaves over there." His head swivelled between the two brothers shooting them a look of abject terror; "we're making our debut in the arena this afternoon."

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

The brothers stood shoulder to shoulder in the crumbling mouth of a dark gangway, frozen in apprehension as a heavy wooden portcullis gate rumbled upwards in front of them, flooding the fetid gloom with the stark light of day. It's ancient ratchet clanked and ground painfully as the huge mechanism turned with mournful slowness.

It wasn't until all the noise and hurly-burly of that days' events had begun that they had realised the complex in which they were incarcerated was built under the arena, and the muffled thrum of an excited crowd had been growing all day, building like the drums of an approaching army until it was a raucous din that filled the underground chambers, bringing with it the foreboding promise of death and savage destruction.

As the portcullis laboured higher, the white noise of the crowd erupted into to a roar that whipped and reverberated around the tunnel like a wild animal.

Already three fights had taken place, four of the six protagonists had walked back into the school, bloodied, battered but otherwise relatively unharmed.

Two hadn't.

xxxxx

Glancing at each other, they bumped fists, exchanging unspoken support; and taking a deep breath, they both stepped hesitantly into the blinding madness.

They stood, wide-eyed and mesmerised by the shimmering motion of the crowd; a shifting kaleidoscope of faces staring down on them in their thousands; baying, calling, expecting blood. Demanding it.

They had both been assigned the role of 'Thracian' gladiators according to Eric, their resident expert. The Thracian, apparently, was a skilled and aggressive close quarter fighter who was highly regarded and provided good, violent entertainment but, Dean reflected sourly, who still dressed like a complete pussy.

Each of them carried a short wide sword, and a heavy round wooden shield, undecorated and not much bigger than a dinner plate. A short leather kilt wrapped over an uncomfortably insubstantial and breezy linen loincloth formed the main part of their outfit. It was secured around their waists by a thick studded leather belt.

A heavy, iron-studded leather arm-guard covered their right arms, held securely in place by a stiff gauntlet at one end and a narrow leather harness strapped tightly around their chests at the other.

Their lower legs were securely protected by heavy leather greaves which covered them from the insteps of their sandalled feet to the tops of their knees. In fact the only discernable difference in their outfits was a dirty linen band that encircled Sam's head, pulling his hair out of his face, whereas Dean's head was bare.

Dean didn't know whether to be scared, angry or embarrassed. It was one thing dying; another thing to die horribly and violently; another thing entirely to do it in front of thousands of people. But to do it half-naked and dressed (barely) like a complete dick was just the icing on the cake as far as Dean was concerned.

And anyway, what kind of halfwit dreams up a warrior's outfit that covers your legs and one freakin' arm but leaves your heart and guts exposed to whatever your enemy wants to throw at them?

And people reckoned the romans were clever? Freakin' asshats more like.

The final indignity as far as Dean was concerned was the fact that they had been saddled with the names 'Praegrandicus' and 'Ferox'. Their invaluable font of all knowledge, Eric, had explained that this meant 'the really big one' and 'the fierce one.' Knowing he was the fierce one didn't help Dean's cringing ego one tiny little bit.

Sam on the other hand was totally focussed. Dean recognised that set of his jaw; he didn't care at all that he was standing in front of ten thousand murderous savages looking like Conan the Douchebag. He didn't care that he had been saddled with a stupid name that sounded like an embarrassing medical condition. He was focussed on not just surviving but on impressing. What's more, he would expect nothing less from Dean. As far as Sam was concerned, this was their first public airing and would be the first move in their crusade to earning the right to take part in the ultimate fight; their ticket home.

Dean huffed out a long breath, trying not to look at the scattered bloodstains which dappled the Arena's amber sand. He'd be lying if he said there was a single aspect of this whole goddamn farce that he was happy about, but right now, he'd be satisfied with surviving.

xxxxx

It was at that moment that the brothers caught first sight of their two opponents who had entered the Arena from the other end.

Both were dressed in a similar fashion to the brothers, but carried large rectangular shields, almost as long as they were tall, and wore wide brimmed helmets that completely hid their faces. Both were heavy set, fleshy men; not quite as tall as the Winchesters.

"Heck dude", Dean muttered without taking his eyes off the plump duo; "we can take these two; just throw a freakin' pie in between them and watch them fight to the death over it."

"Eric said the Romans like their gladiators fat," Sam responded quietly; "the extra fat layer provides extra padding that protects the vital organs from flesh wounds."

Dean looked down at the lean, tapering lines of his torso; he was liking this idea less and less.

xxxxx

His reflections were abruptly halted when one of the two hefty figures charged toward him, lashing out with a tinny roar from inside the metal helm. Dean stumbled backward, swiftly raising his shield to block the blow and let out a grunted oath as his shoulder jarred painfully under the force.

Sam took his cue from the attack by leaping forward thrusting his sword at the other figure, distracting him and drawing him away from Dean. He struck out with the edge of his shield, striking his opponent in the stomach with force enough to send him reeling backwards, doubled over with a breathless roar.

Dean swiftly regained his footing, and sprang forward to strike upward with his sword. Blocked by his adversary, he brought the shield round, striking a heavy blow to the side of the man's head, knocking his dented helmet off with an with a resounding clang.

Sword flailing wildly, Dean lunged toward the dazed man who had stumbled sideways, spitting blood and teeth into the sand, and threw his full weight into knocking him to the ground, but not before the corpulent figure had swung his massive shield back to slam heavily into Dean's side, knocking him flat on his back and sending him skittering across the ground. He gasped breathlessly, wincing as he felt the rough sand tearing into his bare back, and raised his shield just in time to prevent his adversary's sword crashing down on his head.

Across the Arena, Sam's sword was laying relentlessly into the shield of the cowering figure in front of him. The man's longer sword had carved a vicious gash into Sam's thigh, but in his determined rage, he barely felt it. A rain of sweat flew around his face, driven by his whipping hair, but still he fought hard and relentless, his sword nothing more than a wheeling arc of silver swinging back and forth, carving his unfortunate opponent's shield into splinters. The crowd were on their feet, roaring with glee at the sheer brutality of the onslaught.

Dean panted harshly as his abused lungs fought to take in air, his chest heaving as he lay on his back, watching the blurred bulk of his opponent looming over him, silhouetted against the brilliant sunlight. His eyes widened as he suddenly saw a flash of metal arcking down toward him. twisting sideways, he managed to avoid the worst of the blow, but let out a hiss of pain as the edge of sword glanced against his side, opening a long, narrow wound.

His opponent raised his sword again, and Dean watched intently as the man's bloody lips curled into a wide smirk; anticipating a killer blow. He pulled in a sharp breath, ignoring the sting of the wound and the blood trickling down his side, staining the sand beneath him as he waited for his moment … three … two … one ...

Thrusting up a leg with vicious force, he kicked the man clean in the ass, sending him somersaulting forward over Dean's horizontal body.

As the man's bulk tumbled heavily over him, he flipped nimbly over onto his hands and knees, lunging forward and planting a knee forcefully into the plump gut, momentarily paralysing his opponent. He grabbed the stunned man's sword hand, furiously slamming it against the ground to dislodge the weapon and brought his own sword to bear against the beaten man's chest; "bad luck, lardass;" he growled.

Sam stooped over his own defeated opponent, blade pointed threateningly at the helpless man's throat and soaked up the roaring din of approval that shook the curved walls of the arena.

The emperor stood, gesturing serenely over the dissonant bedlam to his two new stars, a thin-lipped sneer of delight splitting his face in two.

The brothers listened numbly as the excited crowd chanted their names. They glanced at each other, gasping for breath, bleeding and shaking, not only from their exertions, but also from the rising panic in their hearts. They knew their performance today had brought them a step closer to the fateful duel that would decide their future.

The knowledge gave them no comfort.

xxxxx

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

Bobby hadn't moved from his kitchen for two days. His tatty old table creaked and groaned under the weight of every book about ancient Rome and its brutal gladiatorial games that he had been able to find over recent days. He was desperate to have some idea of what those boys were going through; but now, in full possession of the hideous facts, he just felt even more helpless and useless than ever.

Slumping back in his chair, he kneaded his tired, burning eyes with the heel of his hand and sunk the last drain of amber liquid in his glass.

He reached for the bottle, standing on the table amidst the scattered books like a lighthouse amidst a sea of bad news, and finding it empty, he let out a roar of exasperation, tossing it across the room. He found a trace of satisfaction in the explosive smash as it shattered against the wall.

He turned and glanced up at the dust-cloaked clock hanging on the wall behind him.

Those boys were nearly two thousand years late; what the goddamn hell was happening to them? Why weren't they back? Were they ever coming back?

There wasn't enough whisky in the world.

xxxxx

Dean sat and leaned wearily against the cold, damp wall in their dank cell, staring miserably into the dark space about him. Beside him, Sam sat silently brooding, unable to meet his brother's eye.

Looking across to the dark, recessed corner of the cell where their cellmate Eric had spent most of his time, Dean picked absently at the fraying linen bandage that had been strapped tightly around his chest to cover the wound in his side and his heavily grazed back, and sighed.

Eric wasn't coming back.

After being scheduled to fight on the second day of the games, Eric had suddenly and unexpectedly found himself being forced out onto the arena late in this afternoon to submit to a hopeless mis-match against one of the camp's hardened veterans for the final bout of this day; his end had been brutal – and mercifully swift.

Throughout Eric's brief ordeal, the exhausted and battered Winchesters were in the physician's hands, unaware of their friend's plight and unable to help him.

Dean closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the wall. Gnawing his lip, he fought back his simmering anger and the bitter tears that pricked at his eyes.

When the litter bearing Eric's bloodied body had been carried back into the complex, Dean had unleashed a storm of such white hot fury on the gladiator responsible, the man's end had been even swifter than Eric's.

The assault had landed both him and Sam back in their cell in shackles.

xxxxx

Sam brooded quietly, staring blankly into the corner; the dark nook where poor Eric had sought sanctuary, hiding like a frightened animal.

The only sign that he had ever existed were his shattered spectacles, useless now to sightless eyes, laying discarded on the floor next to an abandoned sandal.

Married to his books, Eric had left no-one to mourn him, although a late night conversation between him and the brothers had revealed that he had never given up hope of finding a nice woman who could be happily married to the world's biggest geek.

Big geek he may have been, but Sam reflected that without Eric's extensive knowledge of Rome and it's bloodthirsty inhabitants, the brothers would have been utterly bewildered, lost and vulnerable in this brutal and alien world. His admirable learning had kept them informed and prepared, better able to defend themselves. Sam was in no doubt that they owed their lives to Eric.

And they hadn't been there to help him when he needed them.

Eric was, by his own admission, an unremarkable man. He was thoughtful, clever, unassuming, kind-hearted and gentle; he kept himself fit, loved his work and supported good causes. He represented, as far as the brothers were concerned, all that was good about humanity.

His life had been ended by all that was bad about it.

xxxxx

Dean felt no pain; the raw grazes across his back and the wound in his side had become completely irrelevant. He couldn't even think of complaining about any discomfort; he was too tired, too resentful, too brimming with hate-filled anger to care. All he wanted was for them to get out of this godforsaken hellhole before the next broken body he saw being carried solemnly back into the camp was Sam's.

He had to get away from these barbaric dicks; Eric had been worth more than the whole goddamn lot of them put together.

He knew that if he stayed here a moment longer he was going to lose it and end up tearing this goddamn place apart, along with every stinking, murderous sonofabitch in it. He wanted to unleash a rampage of such destructive rage, that Nero's famously fiddle-induced incineration of Rome would seem like a minor act of irresponsibility by comparison.

He knew that Eric's fight had been moved forward to today for a reason; and that reason was to accommodate an extra, very special event. An event that had only been considered after the brothers' performance in the arena.

An event that would send the audience into raptures, an event that would close the second and final day of the games and that would be talked about for years; generations even.

Both brothers knew all too well what that event was going to be.

xxxxx

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

The following morning, a blanket of steely-grey clouds had settled over the city, bringing with them a heavy, stinking humidity and suffocating warmth that wrung the life and soul out of the world beneath them. Despite that, the populace of Rome, far from wilting in the oppressive heat, had flocked energetically to the arena. They had been promised something special; something they would remember for the rest of their lives.

They had been promised a fight to end all fights.

Three bloody bouts had already come and gone but the audience, impatient for their treat, had disregarded them with contemptuous apathy.

Now, however, the mood was growing savage, sated by the morning's spilled blood and copious amounts of wine, the crowd were growing restlessly feral, and the foot-stamping chant that was circling the arena was taking on an air of darkening menace.

xxxxx

Standing in the tunnel, once more facing the portcullis gate in the fetid gloom, the brothers couldn't bear to look at each other. Dean silently stared down at his filthy, sandalled feet, listening to the pounding throb of his own hammering heart. He wanted nothing more than to tell those savages out there to shove it up their ass. He'd gladly take the consequences rather than do this awful, sick thing. But then Sam, the stubborn sonofabitch, would rather stay here and rot in this hellhole than fight for a freedom without his brother.

The only way to save Sam is to hurt him, to try to kill him. It was like the punchline to a bad joke; a very unfunny, bad joke.

He didn't have to look up to know what Sam was thinking. He knew that set of Sam's jaw; that freakin' focus that no power on earth could break. Sam no more wanted to hurt Dean than Dean wanted to hurt him, but ever the pragmatist, he could see past the horror of their present situation to a time where they could resume their lives. It was a triumph of hope over expectation.

Dean knew he would falter that if it came to that final terrible act, and that would mean them both feeling the wrath of the emperor and the mob. No, if there was to be no reprieve, no way out, better to dispatch Sam himself, quickly and cleanly, than leave him to be torn apart by an angry mob or crucified, or whatever else these animals did to those that defied and disappointed them. He'd find out soon enough if it came to it, but at least Sam's troubles would be over.

xxxxx

With a melancholy clank, the chain on the portcullis took up its strain and the huge slab of wood began to lift in front of them

The thunderous howl of the mob filled the tunnel, whipping around them like a wild thing as they stood frozen in the moment, watching as, inch by inch, the stark light of day found them.

Neither brother had ever heard a sound so hostile, it crashed over them like a raging tide of malice and bloodlust, crushing them until they could barely breathe under the weight of savage expectation.

Dean's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword and he pulled in a deep breath, fighting to keep some semblance of control. He no longer cared how he was dressed, or where he was, he could no longer smell the dirty, sweat-imbued leather that he wore, he couldn't feel the pinch of the tight strap across his chest, or the chafe of the greaves against his ankles; his entire world had shrunk to him and Sam and what was being expected of them.

He felt the thick, heavy belt tighten around his waist as he sucked in another long breath.

xxxxx

Sam couldn't bear to look at his brother. He couldn't believe it had come to this; their only hope of survival, of any kind of future – a bout in which they would be expected to fight to the death. The emperor, and more importantly, the crowd would accept nothing less.

Nervously clenching his toes, he felt the sand grate beneath his bare feet, and took a long deep breath.

He couldn't see if Dean was afraid, or resentful, angry or resigned; he didn't want to see. He knew that if he looked at Dean's face, into those eyes – so much like their mother's – that had looked out for him every day of his life, his resolve would retreat like a bad army.

He knew what he was expected to do. He had been functioning on the notion that they could showboat their way through the whole ordeal, but now the moment was upon him, he wasn't so sure. How do you strike the life out of someone who has been mother, father and brother to you? But if it came to it, better Sam strike the blow than refuse and then leave Dean to the mercy of the Lanista and his thugs as a losing Gladiator.

For once in his life, Sam was questioning his wisdom, he could suddenly see no way out.

He gripped the two daggers that were his weapons for today's spectacle, and stretched his neck from side to side as he stared forlornly at the mighty portcullis which rose at an appropriately funereal pace.

xxxxx

The roar of the crowd dulled to a murmur as the Emperor heaved his corpulent bulk out of his throne with a hoarse grunt and stood, gesturing regally across the arena for silence.

"People of Rome," he began haughtily; "I do not need to relate how our mighty city was founded by two brothers." He paused, for theatrical effect, his thin lips stretching into that loathsome frog-like sneer as he looked out across the silent anticipation of the crowd. "The brothers, Romulus and Remus; sired by the great Warrior God, Mars; they were suckled by a she-wolf and grew strong on her milk to become great warriors in the footsteps of their father."

He paused again, relishing the excited thrum of the crowd, soaking up their attention like a sponge.

"Like all great men, the brothers were strong and powerful, inspiring fear and awe in all who saw them, but as brothers are wont to be, they were also quarrelsome," he explained to an increasingly fractious crowd; "and in one final terrible fight, Romulus struck out in a rage worthy of their mighty father and killed his brother," his voice took on a solemn timbre; "in honour of that terrible occasion, I bring you two great and powerful brothers; Praegrandicus and Ferox, fighters in the mould of Romulus and Remus who will, for your delight, enact those final terrible moments in the story of our founders."

He gestured toward the dark maw of the tunnel, and the brothers were both urged forward by a fist in the back.

xxxxx

An expectant hush fell over the crowd as they watched the two figures slowly circling each other. They moved slowly, cautiously, each step heavy with dread of a terrible purpose.

A threateningly impatient murmur began to circulate until eventually Dean, realising that this was not an audience who would be kept waiting, dropped down into a fighting stance, his sword held across his body in front of his shield in a classic defensive position.

The reality of the situation filled Sam with dread; he could feel himself shaking so hard, he dropped one of the daggers he was carrying. Bending to pick it up, he rubbed his hand in the sand in an attempt to improve his grip, and dropped down to his haunches, shadowing Dean's motion with one dagger drawn back to protect his body, the other held out before him.

Together they crouched, the goading chant of the crowd bearing down on them. Eventually, Dean looked up to give Sam a watery smile of reassurance.

'Defend left' he whispered, and then with a roar, he attacked.

His blade flashed toward Sam's left shoulder, but with the warning, Sam was able to defend, their forearms blocking. He ducked under Dean's flashing blade, and thrust forward, his dagger brushing Dean's right side.

They fought without respite, strike after strike met and countered; lunging and pirouetting in a macabre dance of violent ferocity, striving to fight their way through each other's defences, glad not to succeed.

Each ringing clash of blades was greeted by a howl of approval, every glancing blow was cheered

Endlessly, they lashed out, the song of steel against steel, the crash of bone against bone; a kick to Dean's stomach, the hilt of a sword to Sam's jaw.

Under the sweltering heat, sweat glistened on both their bodies, mingling with blood and oil as they battled relentlessly against each other, communicating in nothing more than grunts of exertion, and gasping roars of effort.

Dean sprang forwards, pushing Sam away and gifting them with a few precious seconds rest. They stumbled apart, their breath coming in short harsh pants as the crowd screamed disapproval at the brief pause in proceedings.

Charging back into the fight, Sam struck forward, but Dean ducked sideways, grabbing Sam by the arm and flung him aside, so that he almost lost his balance.

Sam's arms wheeled uncontrollably to stop himself falling backwards, catching Dean across the chest with the tip of his blade and carving a long bloody trail.

Leaping backwards, Dean gasped at the blade's bite, and shimmied to miss Sam's deliberately wide lunge. He brought the hilt of his sword down hard over Sam's shoulder, disarming him of one of the daggers, but Sam's free arm swung across Dean in retribution, the tip of his blade glancing off the shield and threading another longer, deeper wound down Dean's flank.

Dean blinked in shock, staggering backwards and swinging his shield upwards into Sam's chest where his sword found it's mark, Sam's arm feeling its sting.

The crowd were on their feet chanting, stamping, roaring at the spectacle.

They slammed into each other again, no longer fighting at arms length, they became locked into combat, wrestling and grappling furiously; in the tangle of limbs, their blades dropped to the ground, skittering across the arena.

Dean hooked a leg around Sam's and they both tumbled to the ground. Knowing that he had to give the ravenous crowd what they wanted, Dean picked up one of the daggers, drawing it back as if to strike and gesturing with his eyes that his own sword was discarded on the ground only inches above Sam's head.

Reaching over his head, Sam gripped the sword and brought the hilt across Dean's mouth with a sickening thud, blinking back the spray of blood and saliva, and sending Dean sprawling backwards onto the ground. There came a hollow thud as his shield rolled away over the bloodsoaked sand.

Sam rolled over, slowly, giving Dean a few seconds to compose himself.

Trying to rise to his feet, Dean panted breathlessly as his bruised ribs briefly refused to co-operate, a look of indignant shock across his bloodstained face; before he lunged toward Sam, teeth bared in mock rage.

He threw the dagger down and laid into Sam, but Sam was too strong, throwing Dean down once again, heavily onto his back. He loomed over him with Dean's sword, but Dean's hips thrust upwards, applying his favourite trick, a foot to the ass knocking Sam headlong over him to faceplant into the sand. Dean rolled onto his belly, his aching biceps shaking as he lifted his face from the sand. Fatigue was taking hold to both combatants, and Sam, having managed to reclaim one of his daggers and stand was staggering like a drunk.

With titanic effort, Dean raised himself to his own unco-ordinated feet, and reached for his sword. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled toward his brother and lashed out, taking Sam's ankles from under him.

His strengthless legs offering no resistance, Sam crashed to the ground, his full two hundred pounds tumbled bonelessly onto Dean, flattening him as an elbow made it's mark into Dean's bloodstained chest, once more knocking the air from his lungs.

Around them the roars and whoops of a delighted crowd drowned out the roars of the combatants.

As the battle continued, it became bestial. Two bodies, barely recognisable through a coating of blood and sand, grappling on hands and knees or on their feet when their fading strength allowed; colliding like the walls of a falling building. There was no longer any skill or elegance on display; just visceral brute strength and a burning will to fight.

Exhaustion was overwhelming them both; the kicks and punches were becoming slower and more laboured. Blow was traded for blow, blades were thrust and deflected with fierce aggression. Their bodies were spent, broken and drained; only their determination and purpose was keeping them moving and conscious.

Inflamed by bloodlust, the crowd were on their feet to a man as they watched the spectacle below them; if the brothers could have looked up into the banks of spectators they would have seen that even the emperor was on his feet, clapping and roaring encouragement in a most un-regal manner.

He was awed by their skill and determined courage. Even at times when they had lost their weapons, and he had been convinced the battle would be over, another disappointment to accompany all the others, but to his surprise and delight, these brothers seemed prepared to slaughter each other with their bare hands.

It was truly a fight to end all fights; he had never seen it's equal.

Weakly pushing Dean aside, Sam rolled onto his back into the sand, gurgling through blood which flooded his mouth as he prepared himself for another assault when he suddenly saw Dean's bloodied figure recede upwards into the distance. He hadn't seen the two praetorian guards who had walked onto the arena and pulled Dean to his feet.

Two more guards similarly did the same for Sam, picking him up and dragging his boneless body upright.

The brothers were too exhausted and broken to be in any way surprised or even interested when the emperor stepped between them, glancing sideways to ensure his praetorians had a good firm hold on the two combatants.

He held up his hand for quiet, and the screaming crowd grudgingly obliged.

xxxxx

"People of Rome," he began; "much is spoken of the great arena and the spectacles of blood that are seen here. I have borne witness to many such events, but it is my honour to tell you that none I have ever seen can match the display I have been privileged to enjoy today."

He looked around him to the slumped figures either side of him, only the firm grip of the guards on their arms keeping them subsiding to the ground.

"I state, here in front of you good people, that even the fabled final battle between Romulus and Remus could not match this spectacle."

He bowed his head and stood listening to the rhythmic chant of the thrilled crowd.

"These two men have provided such a battle that will live through the ages, one that your children and their children will read of, and it is my intention to reward them for their service."

The crowd rose to their feet and the chant broke into an exuberant roar.

A fifth guard passed a long wooden box to the emperor, which he took without thanks and opened. It contained two wooden swords.

"This, my friends, is the rudis," he explained, his wide, thin lipped smile, lifting his drooping jowls into a grin like a graveyard full of rotting tombstones; "this is the symbol of your release from the bonds of slavery. It is not my will to make you fight more; you have done enough to earn the pleasure of the mighty god, Mars and by his honour you will walk as free men."

His fat, calloused hand pressed one sword each into the numb hands of the barely conscious brothers, seemingly unconcerned about their complete lack of response.

He reached inside his robe and drew out two small leather pouches, pressing them into each of their free hands.

"A small gift of gold to fund your new lives;" he announced over the cheering, stamping crowd; "live them well my fine warriors."

Standing weakly on boneless legs, being supported between the arms of the guards that held him, Dean glanced across at Sam. It wasn't until he saw Sam return the glance with a faint smile lifting his blooded, swollen mouth, that Dean allowed his eyes to droop closed and everything went dark.

xxxxx

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

Midnight; and a grey moonlit pall had spread across the dusty bedroom.

On top of one of the beds lay Bobby, fighting a losing battle against worry-fuelled insomnia as he catnapped uncomfortably, trying and failing to ease a degree of the crushing weariness that the ordeals of the last few days had brought upon him. Fully clothed, he hadn't even noticed he'd left his cap and boots on when he'd slumped dejectedly down onto the threadbare blue comforter.

As he drowsed fitfully, he guessed he might be dreaming. His distracted mind raced with random images; images of the boys, Dean's abandoned flashlight, the emperor, and that damn stone back at the museum.

In his sleep-addled state, he imagined the tones of Sam's voice and Dean's tuneless and obnoxiously loud singing. He sighed as the comforting sounds melted into a much more disturbing noise; the clash of swords, and the jeering of a bloodthirsty mob.

Over it all, there was one other sound; a voice. A voice he couldn't place whispering something he couldn't hear or understand.

His head rocked from side to side as the sounds and images whirled through his tormented, restless mind.

Suddenly, his nose wrinkled in disgust as a sickly odour, reminiscent of poor personal hygiene inadequately masked by a faintly musky fragrance drifted onto his radar. It was deeply unpleasant although, at the same time, unsettlingly familiar.

What the hell?

That smell; was it coming from him? He sure hoped not. Bobby would concede to anyone that he wasn't at his best right now but even if he looked like shit, he was pretty damned sure he didn't smell like it too.

With a deep sigh, he gave up on the attractive but ultimately pointless idea of getting any rest, and rolled over slowly to sit on the side of the bed. His heavy eyelids drifted open and he blinked back a stinging haze of inadequate sleep.

His head dropped wearily into his hands, but almost immediately lifted again as a tiny, barely perceptible glint from the floor caught his eye. He squinted, trying to focus his still-hazy vision as he looked down at the bare floorboards between his feet and sure enough, there it was. Something small and shiny lying discarded on the floor, glittering faintly in the moonlight.

Picking it up, he examined it closely. Gold and round like a coin, it was embossed with inscriptions that were way too small for Bobby to read.

He idly turned it over in his palm and his blood ran cold when he recognised the deeply unattractive profile embossed on the other side.

Now the realisation flooded over him; that smell … old, musty, unwashed clothes, scented unguent and halitosis. Those whispered words, it wasn't a dream – it was a visitor.

The emperor.

That could only mean one thing ...

His heart pounded in his chest as he looked up from the tiny coin in his hand and noticed two words scratched into the wall across from him:

'domus antiquitatum …'

Breathless with excitement, he did a rapid translation in his head; "house of antiquities".

Bobby leapt up off the bed, energised with a new sense of purpose. His fatigue became a distant memory; suddenly he knew exactly where he had to be.

xxxxx

Sam feebly tried to pull away from his guards as he watched Dean slump limply between the arms of the praetorians who held him, but he simply didn't have the strength.

He felt utterly empty. He guessed that the crowd would be expecting the brothers to be basking in their glory but there was no glory to be had in pandering to the whims of a madman; no glory in watching a friend - a good, harmless man - die, no glory in battering your brother to a bloody pulp.

His boneless legs trembled from the sheer effort of holding himself upright, even though the emperor's praetorians were hanging onto him with grim determination and doing most of the work in keeping him vertical. He knew it was a matter of moments before he followed Dean into oblivion. Bring it on, he thought.

A trickle of hot blood ran along the curve of his jaw, but he didn't care. The numbness of beaten and bruised muscles, the burning throb of his wounds, his rapidly closing eye, his ringing ears and spinning head were all irrelevant, he didn't care about any of it.

All that he cared about was the broken man next to him. Dean's bruised face was hidden in shadow, slumped against his bloodied, sand-caked chest; a thin ribbon of foamy blood hung from his lip. If this was the price of their freedom, it was far too goddamned high.

As Sam's focus drifted, he was vaguely aware of the walls around him, the faces of the crowd, the bloated figure of the emperor all slowly fading and distorting, the shapes and colours running like water down wet paint. The sound of the crowd's cheering and excitement became muffled; a stifled, thrumming mumble that surrounded him like a heavy blanket.

The whole world around him was gradually evaporating into nothing more than a dream, even the strong hands that held him felt less real, fluttering around his arms like cobwebs rather than the iron grip of a trained soldier.

In the blurring, dissolving turmoil, the only thing that remained real and solid was Dean, sinking lower and lower into the ground.

Sam swallowed back a giddy nausea and closed his eyes, willing himself to join Dean and let unconsciousness take him.

xxxxx

Sam's eyes eventually fluttered open and were immediately assaulted by a hazy sunlight. He groaned miserably, wiping away tears and squinting against the searing ache that gripped his head. He expected to be lying back in his cell on one of those stinking, flea-infested horsehair mattresses alongside Dean, but instead he was in a bed, a clean, comfortable bed. The stink of the camp; a pungent cocktail of blood, sweat, mud and horses was somehow replaced by a faint and altogether less offensive odour of coffee and old books.

His entire body was immersed in a sea of pain; strained aching muscles, bruised bones, deep bloody cuts and torn, stinging grazes, but for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt clean. He could feel his movement restricted by heavy layers of bandages which had been expertly wrapped around most parts of him that could be bandaged, and taking everything into account, he was as comfortable as could be expected.

Beside him, he could see Dean, his deeply bruised face half buried in the comforting warmth of a fat, white pillow, and hear him snuffling sleepily through a congested and bloody nose. Despite Dean's extensive injuries, heavily bandaged just like Sam's, he looked completely at peace.

The best thing of all, however, was the face that stared down on him. It wasn't the emperor's; It wasn't a guard's, or the sneering mask of a bloodthirsty roman arena-goer. It was something far more welcome.

He looked up, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing and blinked blearily through his one good eye that wasn't swollen shut. Eventually he smiled.

"Bobby?"

There came a sigh of deep relief, and a familiar and deeply comforting voice responded; "hey son, it's darn good to see ya at last."

xxxxx

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

Bobby stared at the clumsily scratched letters on the wall.

House of Antiquities …

There was only one house of antiquities that Bobby was interested in right now.

He'd been expecting a visit of some kind from the emperor when there was something finally going down with the boys. Partly because he'd put the fear of God or Mars or whoever into the emperor's hapless spirit during their brief chat, and partly because of the binding spell he'd quickly recited over the fire when he burned the boys' message because he didn't trust the pig-faced asshole further than he could spit.

Thanks to that binding spell, the mighty emperor Gaius Posthumus, ruler of millions and scourge of ancient Rome, was Bobby's bitch. Even if he did succeed in staging his goddamn tribute to Mars whether it be through the Winchesters' efforts or not, he wasn't going to gain triumphant entry into the halls of immortality to bask in the eternal gratitude of the mighty Warrior God – not without Bobby's say so.

And if Bobby found out that either of those boys had died as a result of his stupid, lameass obsession, well; let's just say salting and burning would be the least of the emperor's worries.

xxxxx

Bobby turned the coin over in his hand. It was easy for us, the breathing, corporeal beings of the living world to commune with the spirit dimension, but for spirits to cross the veil, not so. Very often their words came out cryptic or garbled, voices distorted or so quiet as to be unheard; sometimes they could only make their presence known physically – like knocking a picture off a wall or rapping on doors; messages were often written in archaic or foreign languages and in whatever medium came to hand, like traced into dirt or on a steamy window or scratched into someone's forehead.

Or in this case, their wall.

And the coin? Bobby considered the tiny gold disc in his hand. An incentive maybe, to compel Bobby to break the binding spell, or … his heart sank as the possibility crossed his mind … compensation for a grievous loss?

He snapped back into his purpose. Maple Museum was only about two hours away, so why was he still sitting here moping around with his thumbs up his ass? He snatched up the keysto his truck and drove like a man possessed.

xxxxx

Bobby crept through the dark and deserted museum; a thin film of dust had settled over the buildings' abandoned galleries since his last visit and as he picked his way cautiously and quietly through the empty halls, the packed and covered exhibits stood around him like silent witnesses to the museum's neglect.

He suddenly realised that, despite mulling over every possible eventuality in his frantic mind on the drive over, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to find here. The emperor's message had given nothing away. He had no guarantee he was going to find the boys, alive and well, alive and unwell or even at all.

It was with no small sense of trepidation therefore that he stepped into the shadows of the depressingly familiar Roman Antiquities chamber, and halted in his tracks when he heard a sound that warmed his heart and sent a chill down his spine at the same time.

A groan.

Tripping over his feet as he rushed through the gloom, Bobby dashed in the direction of the sound, which seemed to have come from behind the massive stone carving where the whole nightmare had begun days ago.

The sight that met him as he charged around the side of the sculpture both warmed his heart and made his blood run cold.

Sam sat slumped against the tall glass case, listing sideways over Dean's still figure which half-sat, half-lay beside him, leaning heavily into Sam's bruised and bloody side.

Bobby sucked in a quiet gasp as he skimmed the flashlight over the two motionless bodies and got a first look at the damage; damage that they had inflicted on each other by their own hands. Because that's what Bobby had told them to do.

His eyes began to sting; in weeks to come he would swear it was the dust.

He dropped to his knees beside them, ignoring the crackling of his protesting joints; "hey boys," he whispered, gently patting Dean's blood-caked face; "you're home - can y' hear me? Holy hell boys, tell me you can hear me."

A quiet throaty groan rumbled through Dean's bruised and bloodied chest and Bobby watched as his eyes flickered open, gazing without focus through Bobby's face and closing again almost immediately.

Scraping a shaking hand over his beard, Bobby scolded himself; "c'mon Singer, get a goddamn grip."

His mind whirled as he surveyed the two bruised and battered figures. slicked with an oozing crust of blood and sand and barely conscious, they were both clearly alive but dazed; certainly not lucid; neither brother had yet acknowledged Bobby's presence. Did they need a hospital? Could they be moved? More to the point, was it really advisable to call an ambulance? Explaining away two guys battered half to death, lying unconscious on the floor of a closed and locked museum dressed as gladiators? Yeah, Bobby was a gifted flimflam artist, but that? That would test his powers of invention to the limit.

Better, if it were possible, to get them home to his place, get them out of this godawful S&M gladiator crap, cleaned up and dressed in some sensible gear then he could spin some yarn to medics about a bar fight or a car crash or at least something within the realms of sanity should the need arise.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Bobby reached out to squeeze Sam's shoulder; "you're okay son, all over now – gettin' you home."

Muttering an awkward apology to both brothers, he tugged open the tight straps across the brothers' chests and efficiently conducted quick manual checks, feeling for broken ribs, back injuries and obvious signs of any internal damage.

Once he had satisfied himself that the brothers' injuries didn't appear to be immediately life threatening, and buoyed by the fact that both men had begun to move; Sam reacting vacantly to Bobby's voice and Dean incoherently protesting his wandering hands, he made his decision – get them home and think once again about their wellbeing there.

Taking a deep breath he stooped deeply, leaning into Dean, grabbing his arm and apologising gruffly as he slipped an arm beneath his knee before hoisting him up into a fireman's lift.

He stood slowly, stumbling sideways and shifting his load until he had regained his balance, working hard to convince himself that having a half-naked gladiator wrapped around the back of his head wasn't in any way awkward.

Bobby was impressively strong for a man of his vintage, but Dean was heavy; jeez it was like the kid was stuffed with lead. Bobby cursed silently under his breath as he slowly staggered rubber-legged under his weighty burden through the museum's winding corridors toward his truck making a mental note of his medical insurance number for the extensive spinal surgery he was sure he was going to need when this was all over.

His heart sank when he reminded himself he still had to go back for Sam …

xxxxx

Bobby dropped a bloodstained facecloth into the bowl of tepid, pink-tinged soapy water beside him and stood, stretching the kinks out of his abused back. It was clear to see that both the boys had lost weight during their ordeal, but they both still weighed a freakin' tonne. Bobby's back wasn't going to let him forget this night, he guessed; not for a long time.

The brothers lay in the room's two beds, sleeping relatively peacefully. Bobby's time spent cleaning and treating their injuries had laid bare the full extent of the damage and it made Bobby sick to his stomach to see their bodies criss-crossed with bloody wounds and stained with darkening bruises. He looked down on their faces, marred by signs of the brutality they had been forced to endure; Dean's broken nose and split lip and Sam's bruised and swollen cheekbone, black eye and broken tooth, and bit back a tirade of obscenity.

Pouring himself a coffee, he settled into a chair beside the beds preparing for a long night of watchful care.

xxxxx

It was around eight in the morning when Bobby heard Sam stirring; the springs in his ancient bed groaning under his weight.

He glanced up at Bobby, through his one good eye that wasn't swollen shut, blinking blearily as if he couldn't quite process what he was seeing.

Eventually he spoke; "Bobby?"

Bobby let loose a deep sigh of incalculable relief. ""hey son, it's darn good to see ya at last."

Sam blinked again, wincing as a he brought a hand up to touch his swollen eye. "oh man, it's good to see you too. I thought it was a dream."

Bobby shook his head; "It's all me son, it's real," he offered a glass of orange juice to Sam; "drink this," he coaxed, "looks like those sonsofbitches were starving ya."

'Didn't feel like it', Bobby's back reminded him.

He turned when he heard the rustle of blankets and a soft groan from the other bed, to see Dean looking quizzically across at him, only his eyes and the top of his tousled head visible from under the quilt.

"Bobby? S'at you?"

"It's me," Bobby grinned, reaching for a second glass of juice.

Dean grimaced as he snuffled noisily through his bloodied, swollen nose.

"You got pancakes?" he mumbled hopefully.

xxxxx

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

"For the love of God will ya stop goddamn squirmin'?"

"Well mind what you're doin' with that freakin' safety pin then ..."

Bobby was sitting on the side of the bed manfully trying to change the bandages circling Dean's chest and fighting the urge to wrap the bandages around his mouth instead.

It was two days after the brothers' return to the real world and Sam stood quietly in the corner of the bedroom watching the exchange with a crooked smile playing across his bruised face. The misshapen swelling over his cheek and brow was diminishing rapidly, and Sam was relieved to be able to see out of both eyes now.

Bobby's work was painful to watch, but Sam couldn't look away. The bandages around Dean's torso had been covering up numerous knife wounds and a mass of raw grazing across Dean's back; Sam had put those wounds there; those narrow crimson slashes that were criss-crossing Dean's chest like some terrible road-map of their ordeal, the same way Dean had given him the thirty stitches Bobby had needed to put into his shoulder. He'd knocked Dean to the ground and torn his back to shreds in the rough arena sand, and Dean had battered his face almost beyond recognition.

And they'd done it because they loved each other.

Sam had done some seriously distressing and immoral stuff in his time, but distressing and immoral didn't even begin to describe the experience the brothers had just been through. He felt another deep gash under his tightly bandaged thigh twinge as his muscles tensed at the thought.

Blowing out a soft sigh, he winced as the livid swelling across his cheekbone throbbed in protest.

"Y'okay Sam?"

That tiny gesture hadn't gone unnoticed by Dean who abruptly interrupted his enthusiastic Bobby baiting session in his concern.

"Yeah, good," Sam smiled; "just a bit sore."

He took a deep breath; "how about you?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I'm fine," Dean snorted; "If Florence friggin' Nightingale and his hands of doom could keep his harpoon to himself 'stead of jabbin' it in me every five minutes.

Bobby rolled his eyes in Sam's direction; "yeah, well if you'd keep still, ya big girl, and stop ya goddamn yelpin' and pogoin' about, I wouldn't be havin' any problems."

Dean huffed and raised his arms as Bobby tightened the bandage, quickly and efficiently pinning it in place before Dean could cause any more dramas.

Sam knew Dean was hurting, just as he, himself was. Tormenting Bobby, eating everything in sight, teasing Sam - Dean's behaviour was utterly normal - abnormally so. That was the biggest clue; he was trying too hard to pretend everything was fine, that he hadn't just been forced to try to slaughter the person he had devoted his life to protect, and that these were just a few stupid injuries that they had picked up on just another hunt.

They'd had to do terrible things to get each other back to the here and now, but if either of them had fought another warrior in the fabled fight, he would have been comfortably back here in the twenty-first century thinking about his brother rotting away alone and helpless, looking forward to nothing but a grotesque and violent end in ancient Rome. However bad he felt about what they had experienced, that thought was infinitely more horrible, and that gave him comfort.

He hoped, in time, it would do the same for Dean.

xxxxx

A week passed before the brothers felt able to face the world again. Their facial injuries had healed to the point that the fading yellow splashes of bruising could be passed off as something mundane like an unfortunate sporting accident, and Dean's free spirit was champing at the bit for a reunion with the Impala and a few miles of open road.

Bobby didn't know what they had been up to. He just knew they had been spending time surfing the net researching he didn't know what, but whatever it was, they seemed to have found it because they were heading for some godforsaken little burg in the ass end of nowhere called Pikes Creek.

He listened to the Impala's engine fire up and disappear smoothly into the distance as he dropped heavily down into one of the chairs at his kitchen table and reached into his shirt pocket, drawing out the coin that had materialised on his floor the night the emperor had come to visit; the one physical object that connected the emperor Posthumus and Bobby across time. He stared at the tiny gold scrap as it lay dwarfed by the palm of his hand, and shook his head in resigned anger.

He now knew that his initial thought that the gift of the coin was an act of contrition, a compensation for harm done, was wrong; completely wrong. In keeping with everything else the emperor had ever done, it was a totally self-absorbed act - serving no purpose but to provide a physical object touched by the hand of the emperor; something Bobby would need to undo the binding spell. Bobby didn't need it, it he still had some stone scrapings from the big sculpture, but Posthumus was covering his ass; he wanted there to be no obstacles to him gaining his prized freedom.

Bobby felt the anger brewing within him.

It would be so simple to refuse to release the emperor from the binding spell, leaving him doomed to never find his longed-for glory in the pantheon of the gods, but to wander alone and bereft for all eternity.

What the boys had told Bobby over the last few days, about their abuse, and about that curator guy, Bobby was sorely tempted. Okay, so the brothers at least had some tricks to enable them to look after themselves, but that poor curator was helpless. He was done to death for no reason, except for the crime of not being strong or aggressive. In that sick, disgusting world, his exceptional learning, his sporting interests, his selfless charity toward his local hospice, had counted for nothing.

That alone was worth punishing the emperor for, and that was before Bobby even started to think about what those brothers had been forced to endure.

He stared again at the tiny gold disc, running a fingertip over its embossed surface as it lay in his palm.

No.

Bobby rose with a laboured grunt and made his way slowly down to the basement. If he lost himself in thoughts of vindictive revenge, taking joy and satisfaction in thoughts of the emperor's suffering, wouldn't that have made him as bad as the man he was punishing?

He was better than that. Bobby was a far better man than the emperor ever was, or could ever hope to be; and that would be his revenge. He wouldn't let his burning hatred for the callous sonofabitch make him any less of a human being. He wouldn't add his own name to the list of people destroyed and damaged by Posthumus' cruelty.

He would release the emperor's spirit; let the damn thing go wherever the hell it wanted – as long as it never darkened Bobby's life again.

Bobby tossed the coin into the crucible which stood in the middle of the basement, still soot blackened from the last time he had used it and tossed a lighted taper on top of it. He began to recite the releasing charm over the spitting, lavender flames.

xxxxx

The brothers parked up the Impala after a long, patient drive and walked silently through the small, uninspiring town of Pikes Creek. The place had nothing that would, in any way, interest either brother under normal circumstances, but these circumstances were far from normal.

"So this is definitely it?" Dean glanced at Sam for confirmation.

"Yup," Sam nodded; "Pikes Creek, Eric's hometown," he confirmed.

They continued to march through the little town and eventually found what they were looking for; an neglected and unassuming store frontage, tucked away between a bank and a grocery store. The faded sign above the door read 'Calloway's: Coin and Medal Dealership'.

Dean looked at Sam; "ready to do this dude?"

Sam's nod was accompanied by a smile; "yeah," he replied.

xxxxx

Roger Calloway looked up from his book-keeping as two strangers walked into his deserted shop. A brief spike of fear drove its way through his chest as he saw the strangers' faintly bruised faces scanning the racks of coins, medallions and sovereigns all around him, but as the taller one shot him a warm and undeniably genuine smile, he relaxed.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"I hope so," Sam replied with a smile; "we'd be interested to know what you think of these."

Dean produced two aged leather pouches from his jacket pocket and emptied them onto the counter. Calloway counted ten small gold coins as they tumbled onto the faded paintwork.

Picking up one of the coins , he stared at it through a magnifier, squinting quizzically before looking back up at the brothers, his mouth slightly agape.

"where did you get these?"

Dean shrugged casually; "our – uh – grandfather passed recently, we just found them lying around in his basement," he lied.

Sam couldn't help but notice the man's hand had started to shake.

Over the next half an hour Roger Calloway grew increasingly agitated as he consulted books, phoned colleagues, scanned the internet, picked up the coins and studied at them at length and then, drawing in a deep breath, he did it all again.

When he finally returned to his calmly patient customers, his face wore a half-ecstatic half-terrified expression that would have suited a lottery winner.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure th-they're genuine," he stammered; "you got any idea what you've got here?"

Dean nodded, "some old coins, my brother thinks they're roman."

"They're roman alright," Calloway burbled, skirting the edge of hysteria, "reign of emperor Gaius Posthumus," he explained, mopping his brow with a handkerchief; "these are unbelievably rare, because that guy almost bankrupted the Roman Empire, so there wasn't a lot of cash around."

Sam was sure he heard a cash register ring as Calloway blinked.

"So, what'll you give us for them?" Dean asked nonchalantly.

"Uh …" Calloway swallowed hard as his shaking fingers hovered over a calculator, his mind whirling as he considered what he would be able to sell the coins for. He swore softly under his breath as it took him three attempts to punch in the necessary numbers.

"How – um – h-how does thirty thousand sound?"

The brothers glanced at each other, then nodded calmly as if he was discussing the price of a cheese sandwich.

"Fine," Dean smiled; "make the check payable to Pikes Hospice, will you?"

xxxxx

There was a dazed silence in the Impala as the brothers sat and composed themselves before they began the long drive back to Bobby's place.

"That was a good thing we did there, Dean," Sam smiled.

Dean nodded, and his face lifted into a broad and genuine smile that warmed Sam's soul; "yeah, that should make up for a few of those charity half marathons Eric's not gonna be running in the future."

Sam nodded with a sad smile; "Yeah …" he agreed as the nod morphed into a shake of the head; "I can't believe we just did that; when I think of what we could do with thirty thousand bucks …" his voice trailed off into a soft whistle of disbelief; "just think, you could buy a whole new Impala!"

Dean turned toward Sam with an icy glare; "wash your freakin' mouth out, bitch!" He turned back and patted the steering wheel; "don't you listen to him baby, I'd sell him before I'd sell you."

They settled into a companionable silence as Dean started the engine and pulled the Impala smoothly out onto the highway ready to head back to Bobby's.

Sam watched Dean out of the corner of his eye, satisfied that they had made some good come out of their ordeal and had repaid in a small way their debt of gratitude to Eric. It was one healing step on their road to recovery and Dean seemed brighter already.

xxxxx

It was a good few minutes before Dean spoke again.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how we were good to do what we did?" Dean asked suddenly, glancing shiftily across at Sam.

"Uh-huh?" Sam replied curiously.

Dean rummaged in his jacket pocket, and dropped two more gold coins onto the dash.

He shrugged; "I couldn't resist," a sheepish grin crept across his face; "if old Calloway was gonna give us thirty thousand for ten, I make these six thousand bucks – two for me, two for you and two for Bobby."

Sam barked out a shocked laugh; it seemed that, thanks to Dean, the road to recovery was for once going to be paved with a touch of luxury.

And that was fine by him.

xxxxx

end


End file.
